


How Much For Your Love?

by ninetyfive



Category: Take That (Band)
Genre: Angst and Smut, Explicit Consent, Gentle Sex, M/M, flip fucking, love at first fuck, paid sex, rent boy AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-09-03 20:11:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 56,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8728552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninetyfive/pseuds/ninetyfive
Summary: "Mark’s body is almost too tempting in the warm, faltering light of the evening. It curves in just the right places. Taut muscles flatter the lad’s tanned arms. The promise of a tattoo is peeking out from the top of his belt; a dolphin. It’s a boyish tattoo, possibly the result of a drunken evening out with mates, but there’s no mistake about its position. It’s deliberate, it’s tempting: kiss me here, touch me there. Gary’s going to.But no, Mr. Barlow’s a true gentleman, he knows what his money’s worth: he softly presses his lips on the boy’s mouth and keeps his hands exactly where they are until Mark pulls away and utters a hoarse, horny ‘Kissing’s extra.’"♬Mark’s an underpaid hotel worker who finally has the night off. The inexperienced blonde stud at the bar thinks he’s a rent boy. What could possibly go wrong?





	1. Chapter 1

He hasn’t had sex for three months. Or a week. Or half a year. It’s hard to tell in this industry. If you take in account all the cheap foreign hotels and paid trips abroad, it’ll probably feel like a lot more than a year; it’ll feel like a lifetime. Gary hasn’t had sex for a lifetime.

And do you know what? It’s not even the _sex_ he misses. He doesn’t miss the arched backs or the sheets he has to ask housekeeping to clean up for him after; it’s the intimacy. It’s the little things: the flowers; the chaste kisses on cheeks; the joint showers after; the nervous, premature _I love yous_ in hotel rooms and recording studios.

Just for once, he wants to go to bed knowing that someone will be there when he wakes up. He wants to draw hearts on his lover’s skin with his fingers until he dozes off and finds things to be exactly as they were. He wants to feel the warmth of his lover’s body against his own. He wants the sparse, spontaneous text messages begging for more later. He wants it all and more, but love doesn’t come easy when you’re always away from home and he’s far too old for one-night stands now. Casual sex is what he did when he was young and famous. Today, he’s neither.

Gary can’t recall when it started, but life has become as boring and stagnant as the songs he has to promote. Love will fix that, he thinks. All I need is a good shag and a cuddle and my creativity will _soar_. I’ll show the label what I’m made of yet. I’ll feel happy then. But it’s been three months or more, and the songs Gary writes are as monotone as his love life. There’s no crescendo, no build-up to an all-consuming cacophony of climaxes; there’s just _this_. The repetition. The sameness. Gone are the days of number one singles and celebrity.

For the past three months, Gary has lived the same cheap, monochrome merry-go-round of a life: he wakes, does promo, performs to a crowd of uninterested record label execs in a city whose name he can’t pronounce, then hops on a plane and wakes in a bed more unfamiliar than his own. It’s tiring and humiliating, and it hardly pays off. His latest single didn’t even scrape the Top 100 despite being playlisted on Capital a fortnight ago.

And he’s not like this usually, honestly he isn’t, but he’s refreshing iTunes constantly. Lurking online forums for news about him has become his new pastime. The tweets that are tagged with his name have become more important than the morning news. He’s affluent, he’s got fans, he’s got three dogs and a house he could land a helicopter on, and yet he feels like he’s got nothing at all.

This is his life now. He no longer finds comfort in DMs from his fans even though he knows he should. Records framed in gold only reflect the popular songs he wrote on nights when his lucky stars shone bright, not the songs he writes now. There’s no dignity in the old songs he performs, just money, but money won’t buy him love. All money can buy him is the clothes he wears and the drink he orders when he sits down at the bar.

He’s staying at a four-star hotel this time. It’s a step up from the previous one, where spiders drew lace cobwebs in the air and the walls were so thin that Gary could hear the one-minute man next door grunt his release. He hardly slept that night.

No, it’s much better, this one. A grand total of twenty floors scrape the clouds with its rooms and expensive penthouses. A menu card fit for kings and queens tempts guests at the restaurant entrance. There’s a gym next door. In front of the Victorian edifice, Ferraris, Aston Martins, Porches and Maserati’s adorn the parking lot. A marble staircase covered with a zig-zagging red carpet makes for an impressive entrance. Handsome men and women in uniform greet the guests at the reception and wish them a pleasant stay. Not one of them has looked at Gary like he wants them to.

All but one.

Gary spots him straight away. It’s hard not to. He’s sitting in the corner of the bar, half-full glass of Coke in his hand. He looks young; a messy brown fringe covers his forehead whilst a playful waistcoat-and-shirt combination creates the impression he’s a trained fashionista. The trousers he’s wearing underneath shouldn’t work, but do: they’re tight, grey ones, with a decorative line down both sides to make his short legs appear taller.

The clothes made the stranger look appealingly lean and skinny – the opposite of the sexy, muscular body that Gary has hidden underneath his black shirt –, and he stands out immediately. He draws Gary’s eyes towards him like Gary is a poor, helpless prey and the young lad’s beauty is the bait. Gary wants to sink his teeth into him; to taste him even though they haven’t even met, he’s that desperate today.

It’s not just his alleged youth that makes the lad stand out in the crowd of grey and black business suits, though. There’s something else about him, like he’s a he’s a _professional_. He’s thought about this outfit. He’s chosen the perfect spot in the perfect bar filled with perfectly impressionable individuals because that’s where he knows he can score a good time.

In fact, Gary thinks, this guy’s almost dressed as a s—

Gary’s train of thought is cut short. Their eyes meet over a sea of tables and bar tops, and Gary almost thinks he can see a certain spark in the lad’s eyes. They share a brief, intimate moment of just taking each other in from across their ends of the room, and then something prompts the stranger to get up and come over.

It’s the first time that someone who isn’t from a record label has shown interest in Gary this month, and his legs go embarrassingly wobbly in the time it takes the lad to get there. He mistakes the butterflies in his belly for a random bout of nausea, and he downs his glass before the stranger can put down his own.

‘How are you?’ the stranger asks. Mancunian. His height makes it difficult to hop onto his stool without some difficulty, but eventually, they’re face to face.

He looks even better from up close, this one. He’s handsome. Sexy. Young. A lot younger, in fact, but not enough to get Gary in trouble. He’s probably in his mid-twenties.

Painted with the brush of a flower pattern, the sleeves of the stranger’s shirt have been rolled up as if he wants to show the world a teaser of his tanned, flawless skin. His lips are red; a result of how much he bites them. The blue eyes that take in every inch of the songwriter‘s body are tender, curious. It’s the look shared between long-lost friends, and yet there’s a playfulness there. Interest. There’s sex there, too; there’s an unspoken promise like there is in Gary’s eyes as well. 

Finally, Gary answers as if pulled away from a dream. ‘I’m f-fine yeah,’ he stammers nervously. ‘Thanks, er –’

‘Mark Owen.’

‘Mark,’ Gary reiterates, the name like sugar on his tongue before he realises he should probably introduce himself too. He swallows Mark’s name down his throat and holds out his large pianist hand. In comparison, Mark’s are positively tiny.

‘I’m Gary. Gary Barlow.’

There’s no glint of recognition in the smile that plays on the corners of Mark’s mouth. If he’s heard of Gary Barlow, elusive singer-songwriter extraordinaire, it doesn’t show. ‘Nice to meet you, Mr. Barlow,’ he says. Even his voice sounds sexy. He takes a long, prolonged sip of his drink and uses the silence that falls over them to give Mr. Barlow another unceremonious once-over. 

He looks good. Fit. He’s probably rich; most people who stay here are. Usually, they treat staff like Mark like crap: do this, fetch that, hold this. It’s humiliating. But this guy here, he doesn’t look as demanding as the other men he’s met. There’s a freshness to his green-grey eyes, a youthful yearning for something just over the horizon that money might or mightn’t buy.

His clothes look good on him, too: a tight black t-shirt and jeans that show off his muscles. He looks like he trains regularly but not religiously, Mark thinks. As in, he’s trained but not a total beefcake. He’s most definitely the type of guy who’ll fuck you senseless and then cuddle you after.

(Mark’s favourite.)

He’s not bad face-wise, either. His ash blonde hair is styled in a playful quiff, and the stubble on his jaw makes him look a lot younger than Mark guesses he is. (Thirty? Forty-ish?) His lips are the best thing about him, though; thin, pink lips that look absolutely _perfect_ for kissing. It’s hard not to feel somewhat attracted to him.

‘What brings you here, Mr. Barlow?’ It’s a simple conversation opener, but one that Mark’s tongue pronounces like a tease: _what brings you here; what can I do for you_. To a guy like him, they’re one and the same thing.

Gary tries to play it cool. ‘I just wanted to have a drink is all.’

They both know that’s not quite true. Gary was looking around him for someone to chat to from the moment he sat down and ordered his drink.

‘You don’t really look like the type of guy who likes to drink alone,’ Mark points out. He glances round him conspiratorially before lowering his voice to such a thin whisper that Gary has to lean forward. ‘I saw you lookin’, you know,’ he says, and it comes out like they’re sharing a secret that no-one must know.

‘That was _you_ , mate,’ Gary laughs nervously. He doesn’t know why he’s whispering too. ‘ _You_ came, didn’t you? Not me.’

Mark gives a coquettish smile. ‘I’m not gonna be here for much longer if don’t buy me another drink.’

Gary finds himself smiling back at the stranger. This could still become a good evening, this.

They order. Gary orders another red wine for himself while Mark opts for a non-alcoholic bottle of Coke. Gary doesn’t bother asking why Mark doesn’t drink. The barman puts the Coke just out of reach, and Gary’s hands brush Mark’s when he decides to push the bottle towards him. It makes Gary blush, but Mark’s cheeks remain stubbornly unchanged. Only the spark in his eye looks changed.

He must do this more often, Gary thinks. I used to be like that once.

Due to sheer inexperience or lack of inspiration (it _has_ been three months, you know), Gary awkwardly forces himself and Mark into a boring conversation about their respective drinks. Mark’s Coke tastes a lot like the one he bought himself at the local Tesco’s, Mark says, and Gary’s glass of wine is just a couple of years shy of tasting like the real thing. Eventually, it’s Mark’s job to steer the conversation back into potential flirting territory. 

‘So, Mr. _Barlow_ ,’ he says, his mouth making Gary’s name sound like a filthy word, ‘what’d you do for a living then?’

Gary’s heart jumps. He doesn’t want to answer questions about his profession! ‘I’m, er, I’m just a singer, me,’ he explains reluctantly. He finds himself momentarily distracted by Mark’s short, slender fingers drawing circles round the rim of his glass, and Gary has to utter an awkward clearing of his throat as if he’s quite trying to come back to the question at hand. Why do Mark’s hands look so painfully suggestive? ‘It’s nothing special, really.’

Mark cocks an eyebrow. ‘Sounds pretty special to me, Mr.’

This makes Gary regret his wording. He doesn’t want to come across as if he hates his job. He doesn’t. Not really. ‘I mean, it’s all right. It just gets to you is all.’

Mark recognises the look on Gary’s face. It’s that tiredness he sees in all the guests here; that same old weariness that makes men and women alike think it’s okay to shout orders at him until he wishes he worked someplace else. He gives Gary another brief, furtive look to make sure he’s definitely not one of them, then goes on: ‘You travel much?’

Gary nods. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen me own bed for five weeks.’

‘Must be hard to be away from your family for so long.’

‘No family. Just me,’ he says, with an illustrative nod at his ringless hands.

‘Wouldn’t you rather not wake up alone?’

Gary’s nervous eyes flick up at Mark. ‘I – I never said anything about that.’

A beat. ‘But I did,’ Mark says with that perfect, almost evocative mouth of his, and he leaves nearly enough silence between it and his next sentence to make Gary’s thoughts run free for just a precious, tantalizing second. This was the perfect moment for a provocative comment to be made, and Mark made it his. With just those three words, he’s showing Gary precisely what his next days and nights could look like.

‘Anyway, you could just take a day off, you know,’ Mark adds when enough time has passed after his previous comment. _I_ have, he thinks, and I’m still here. I didn’t lose my job for asking. ‘Singers are allowed time off too, aren’t they? You can’t be expected to show up everywhere all the time.’

‘God, I wish,’ Gary replies with a mournful sigh. ‘The record label will have a field day if I ask the day off. They’re already mad at me cos I missed a performance at Radio bloody Four. Can you believe it? Radio Four. Christ.’

Mark looks impressed. ‘You sound kinda successful, Sir.’

This comment does not have the desired effect. Performances at Radio One and Capital FM are something to be proud of, but not the gigs Gary’s record label are trying to push him into lately. They’re as humiliating as the chart positions that his manager shoves underneath his nose every Friday. Fuck load of good radio gigs will do him now.

Saddened thus, Gary takes a brief moment to stare into his glass of wine until he changes the subject as effortlessly as a bad key change. ‘Are _you_ successful? In your job?’ That you haven’t told me about yet, Gary thinks.

Mark lets out a short sort of laugh. He’s not about to tell Mr. Barlow he’s a member of staff in the very hotel they’re sitting in. ‘Let’s just say I work in hospitality, Mr. Barlow.’

This comment makes Gary raise his eyebrows. Hospitality could mean fucking anything, including bad things that Gary doesn’t want to know anything about. (And yet does.) ‘What do you mean, _hospitality_?’ he asks, pronouncing the word as if it is in French or German or Arabic and he’s asking Mark to translate it for him.

Mark scrunches up his nose. ‘You know, hospitality. I take care of people.’ He pauses to think about his job description, and settles for the utterly vague addition of ‘I give them what they need.’

This comment changes everything. He doesn’t know if it’s just his lack of affection or a complete misjudgement of Mark’s character, but Gary almost starts to wonder whether or not this stranger is talking about hospitality in the traditional manner. With his fashion sense, oh so perfect hair and flaw-free face that won’t even twitch when he’s coming over to bloody _flirt_ , Gary’s starting to think that Mark might be a — a, well, you know. A you-know-what. He doesn’t even know the right word for it.

It would certainly explain why Mark came over, Gary thinks. He must have seen the bloody need and desperation ooze right off of me. Besides, young guy like him who can afford expensive clothes like that? Definitely suspicious, that.

He can’t help it. He’s curious; wants to know if his suspicions are correct.

He says, ‘When you say you give people what they need . . .’ It’s meant to come out as an innocent comment, an open ending to a question Gary wants answered badly, but the nerves make it sound suggestive, almost provocative. He wants to know if Mark can give him what _he_ needs too. ‘I mean, do you — do you _do_ anything for them? I mean, anything particularly . . . you know. Intimate.’

Mark has cleaned up so many of his guests’ messes that the true intention of the comment completely goes over his head. He’s in fact _so_ accustomed to people asking him awkward questions about his job that he’s got an entire squad of answers already lined up. Does he ever get tired of carrying people’s bags; yes. Yes, he does. Doesn’t he ever wish he could wear something else? Sometimes. What’s the biggest tip he’s ever gotten? Not as big as the movies make you believe. Has he ever met guests with weird fetishes? Hell yeah. He’s had them all. _And_ cleaned up after them.

But he never _talks_. He always gives his friends and family the answers they want to hear, but he never gives away anything real. What happens in this hotel, stays in this hotel.

Including the sex.

‘Do you always ask so many questions, Mr. Barlow?’

Gary blushes. ‘I’m just curious is all.’

There’s that spark in Mark’s eyes again. It’s brighter than all the lights and sequined designer handbags in this bar. ‘Really? And why’s that, Sir?’

Because you fascinate me, Gary thinks. Because I want to get you to my room but I don’t know if I _can_. Because I don’t know if I should. ‘Guess I’m just a naturally curious person.’

Mark smiles knowingly. He puts his drink to his lips and watches the stranger over the rim of the glass while he downs the drink in one tingling, bitter go. The Coke leaves a metallic-tasting sparkle on the roof of his tongue. ‘Do you know what _I_ think, Sir?’

Gary feels himself moving closer to the edge of his bar stool. A residual drop of Coke runs down the outside of the glass, and Mark licks it off before putting the glass back down again. It’s an innocent little gesture, but to Gary, it’s tinged with sex and electricity. Like a true professional, Mark knows exactly which buttons to push. ‘Tell me,’ he rasps.

‘I think you ask so many questions because you don’t know how to ask me for my number, Mr. Barlow.’

This makes Gary turn scarlet. Even Mark’s cheeks turn a slightly deeper shade of pink. He bites his lip, and Gary becomes absolutely convinced that he’s doing it all on purpose. He’s _got_ to.

Eventually, Gary’s embarrassment makes way for bravery. If Mark can flirt, Gary can do it too. ‘You’re sayin’ it like you _want_ me to ask you for your number, Mark.’

Another knowing smile; a lick of his lips. ‘Maybe I do.’

Gary doesn’t know how or why, but it’s as though Mark is perfectly tuned into his thoughts. It gives him the air of a mind reader, a fortune teller. Or something else entirely.

A part of Mark must have heard him thinking: keep looking at me like that, and we’ll be having a good time. Just one more word, one brief, covert touch down the curve of my knee, and he’s in. Literally. If that’s what they both want.

But trust is hard to gain when you’re in this industry, and a sad little voice in Gary’s head is still telling him that Mark is not what he seems. Gary just can’t figure Mark out underneath that pristine, cotton paint job of curves and flowers, and he’s so perfect and observant that he might as well pick up guys for a living. He’s sexy, he’s flirty and he’s bold, and yet he’s as out of reach as all the other men Gary’s met recently. What _is_ the significance of Mark’s coming over? What _do_ his looks up and down Gary’s body mean, and why does it make Gary want him so bad?

While Gary used to have people throwing themselves at him left and right, he’s not used to being flirted with anymore. He no longer knows if people are genuinely interested in his body or just the money that’s paved the path he treads on. Maybe both. Maybe neither. This business is rotten, and Mark could very well be another piece of forbidden fruit he’s not meant to taste.

And yet — he’s here. Mark’s _here_. _He_ came over. Not Gary. _Mark_ spotted Gary over a sea of dull, grey heads, not the other way around. Mark must clearly like _something_ about him. But how? And most important of all, why?

A minute later, the two strangers are still looking at each other. Despite the sounds of chatter and scraping cutlery, there’s just the two of them in this crowded bar. They’re alone, entirely. Between these four outstretched walls, there’s nothing else but Mark’s claim of wanting Gary’s number. It’s hovering above them. It fills the private room of Gary’s thoughts like Mark’s pleasant, enticing cologne.

‘So why haven’t you done it yourself yet?’ Gary asks Mark bravely.

‘Maybe I’m just waitin’ to see what kind of person you are.’

Gary thinks he understands what Mark means. ‘You mean whether you can trust me?’

Mark shrugs in a noncommittal manner. ‘Maybe.’

‘Why?’

Mark leans back, empty glass still in hand. He’s not just looking at Gary anymore, he’s _observing_ him. Who _is_ this rich guy with his green eyes and tight trousers? Why _does_ he speak so little about his profession? Is it shame? Is it regret? Does he wish to be more than just your average singer? Did something happen that made him reject who he is? And more importantly, could Gary still be like the others? Will he still turn out to be one of those rich white guys who bully hotel staff for a living?

The answer is no. Mark has thought about it, and the answer is still no. Gary is not like them. He can’t be. His eyes are much too gentle for that.

Finally, Mark makes up his mind. ‘Like I said, I work in hospitality. Not everyone reacts the same when you give them what they’ve asked for.’

The words are emphasised so deliberately that Gary is now absolutely convinced that Mark is not speaking about things that are entirely innocent. He’s _got_ to be talking about something else. There can be no other way.

Gary swallows. His heart has started beating fast in that way hearts do when they know something wrong or extraordinary is about to happen. All he wants right now is to open this boy up with questions and questions and questions until his body and soul are laid bare and he knows exactly what Mark can offer him. ‘What do you think _I_ need, Mark?’

Mark smiles. He looks round the bar in that same, secretive manner as before, then leans forward until his mouth is at the same angle as Gary’s ear. His breath leaves a hot, suggestive tickle on Gary’s skin. ‘You mean apart from a really, really stiff drink?’

Gary’s eyes flutter closed at Mark’s choice of words. He suddenly wants it all, but also nothing at all. If they’re doing this, he’s going to savour every moment of it.

‘I think you need someone, Mr. Barlow. You were lookin’ for someone from the moment you got here.’ Gary thinks he’s imagining Mark’s lips pecking his skin with a feather-light kiss. He’s not. ‘And I think I’m just the man for the job.’

If Mark and Gary were just two people in the same bar before, then this provocative comment makes Gary feel like they’re alone in the entire universe. He’s no longer inside this hotel or even in London. He feels transported into a world where Mark has eyes only for him; a world where strangers like Mark see him for what he is and not for what his old, crippled money represents. To Mark, he’s not the struggling solo artist that so many others see him as, he’s _more_. He’s potential.

What Mark’s done instead, is spin Gary into his delicate web of looks and compliments until all Gary needs to do say _yes_. Yes, you’re the right man for the job. Yes, you’re sexy and beautiful and everything I didn’t know I needed until I came here. Does that make me desperate? Does that make me sad? Yes, God yes, but I don’t mind it, I don’t care; I – want – you. I’ll give you my everything; my clothes, my money, the last shred of my dignity if it means we get to spend the night together. Just please, please say yes when I ask you to.

Then a stranger shows up and changes everything.

‘Mark?’

Mark doesn’t see him coming until it’s too late. He turns round on his stool, and he realises with a pang that someone’s standing right next to him. It’s Mr. Doyle, one of those tricky guests that would _pro—bably_ report Mark to the head of staff if he saw him flirting with Gary. (Romantic liassons between guests and members of staff ‘hinder productivity’ and are therefore strictly forbidden.)

Mark forces a smile. Usually smiles come naturally to him, but it doesn’t now. He should have known better than to think that guests wouldn’t recognise him without his uniform on. ‘Mr. Doyle,’ he says, and it comes out strangled. You need to be careful with Mr. Doyle, they said. Don’t let him do you all the dirty work, they told him. Just one wrong word, and that’s Mark’s career over. ‘I-is everything all right?’

Oh God, please don’t mention that I work here, Mark thinks. Please, please, please, please.

Mr. Doyle smiles in the way that men like him do, with a lot of teeth and plastic cheeks that look like they might burst if they’re used too much. ‘I just wanted to thank you for last night,’ he says. The brief silence that follows leaves just enough time for Gary to wonder what Mark did that would warrant such a spontaneous thank-you. ‘I must say, I haven’t had such good service for eons.’

‘N-no problem, Sir,’ Mark says. It’s followed by another fake smile that Gary can’t yet tell apart from the genuine thing. ‘I was just doin’ my job.’ He sends an intimate, ‘don’t mind this guy’ sort of glance in Gary’s direction, but the songwriter doesn’t catch it: he’s too busy staring at what Mr. Doyle does next.

‘Speaking of . . .’

Mr. Doyle demonstratively moves his hand to the pocket of his tweed jacket and manages to squeeze out a fat leather wallet with a bit of an effort. He folds it open, stares at its contents as if he’s quite considering what to pay for a four-star meal he’s just had, then elicits a loud gulp from Gary when he slips out a 100-pound note and proffers it to Mark.

Mark doesn’t know what to say. He fumbles with the extortionate tip in his hands, red-faced and flustered. It’s an extortionate amount of money to get for _packing someone’s bags_. ‘I . . .’

‘For your discretion,’ is all Mr. Doyle says. He saunters off with an illegible expression on his face, and it’s as if all the puzzle pieces slot into place and the last of Gary’s doubts disappear like thick fog on an October morning.

Everything makes sense now. Everything is clear. Mark’s a . . . rent boy. _Has_ to be. Mr. Doyle visited him last night, and it must have been bloody spectacular if he ended up paying Mark that much.

Gary knows that he could have a night that spectacular too. He might not be a top 10 charting artist anymore, but he has the money. He has the means and the toys and the rooms and the condoms, and God is he going to make a tit of himself in a minute.

Gary waits until the barman is out of earshot, then poses the awkward question with his heart hammering against his chest. His head feels feather light. Any minute now, he’s going to pass out and wake up alone again. ‘H-how much?’

Mark is still too flabbergasted by Mr. Doyle’s unexpected charity to understand the question. A one hundred pound tip, and just because he kept quiet about this guest’s suitcases!

‘Sorry, what?’ he asks, distracted, before carefully folding the one-hundred-pound note underneath the bar and slowly sliding it into his pocket. He could easily go out for dinner with this amount of money. Never mind that, he could finally buy the guitar he’s been saving up for . . .

Or he could just do the sensible thing and buy new clothes. His grey winter coat is beginning to look rather worn out, and he guesses one hundred pounds will just about cover most of the costs if he wants to purchase something a bit more expensive. I could just tell myself I’ve deserved it, Mark thinks to himself. He’s completely oblivious to the fact that Gary has started shaking. The stool beneath him feels like it’s about to give way, and his face has turned the same colour as his red wine.

Gary hates that he has to ask this question so bluntly, but he wants to. He has to. If he doesn’t ask Mark this question, he’ll spend the rest of the month wondering what could have been. He might have to live with the rejection for the remainder of this night, this year, but he’ll always hate himself for not trying.

Gary’s heart nearly bursts out of his chest when he finally asks the question. Poorly. ‘I mean, h-how much do I have to pay for a – a night with you?’

Each word is uttered more softly than the last, and so it takes a few seconds for the question to slot into Mark’s brain and create maximum impact. When it does, Mark is rendered so speechless that he never gets the chance to defend himself.

‘I – you – you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,’ Gary regrettably goes on. The hole he’s digging for himself is by now large enough to swallow the entire hotel and the people in it. ‘I – I just want one night. One. I’ll – I’ll pay you upfront if – if that’s what you want.’

Gary’s voice trails off into a string of embarrassing words and suppositions, but Mark isn’t listening anymore. All he hears and feels is the comfortable rug being pulled underneath his feet while everything he knows and thinks about himself is put upside-down.

There’s no better way of putting it: Mr. Barlow thinks he’s a rentboy.

 _Him_ , a rentboy.

Kind, innocent Mark Owen from Oldham, being paid for sex.

It’s not him. It just isn’t. Sex is . . . precious. Special. It’s not something to take quite so lightly. Sure, Mark once took his top off on camera to pay for a brand new football kit when he was younger (and he may have . . . given head to the photographer later), but this is something else. This is someone offering him money to _be_ with him. Real, genuine money.

The silence between the two of them stretches on for a humiliating eternity. What on Earth is Mark supposed to think or feel in this situation? Should he feel outraged that Mr. Barlow thinks him a — a rent boy, a male prostitute, or should he actually feel touched by how tenderly Gary has asked it and how tenderly he’s looking at Mark now, with all the desire of someone who just wants to be _loved_?

He hasn’t a clue. He wants to sleep with Gary too, but does he really wants it like this, with dirty money being exchanged hands?

No.

No, he doesn’t.

He makes up his mind. He can’t do it. He has to be honest with Mr. Barlow because that’s what he was brought up to do.

Mark swallows. He sets his jaw and goes over the words he wants to say to Mr. Barlow.

His objection comes out as a strangled, high-pitched ‘Five hundred.’

The two words slip out before Mark can swallow it. His eyes widen as he hears what he’s just said, and his stomach makes a weird sort of drop into the lower part of his body when he realises that he can’t take it back.

This is bad. This is . . . really, really bad.

Meanwhile, Gary is too preoccupied dealing with his own demons in his head to notice how all the colour has been drained from Mark’s skin. He has no idea that Mark is not actually a rent boy, and wrongly mistakes the widening of Mark’s eyes for determination.

‘Okay,’ he says eventually, nodding slowly to let the three-digit number sink in. He doesn’t know whether this is the standard price. Neither does Mark. ‘Okay, five hundred.’

Mark is feeling absolutely mortified, but judging by the way Gary is looking at him with those terrified green eyes, it’s now Mark’s turn to talk. He runs his left hand through his hair, then tries to channel his inner professional. He really can’t turn back now. ‘I-I’m guessing you have a room here?’

Of course he does, Mark thinks. Jesus Christ.

Gary just nods. He looks as petrified as Mark feels.

‘I-I’m gonna need a few minutes to prepare,’ Mark says. He’s literally making this stuff up on the spot. All he has to go on is a bad documentary he once saw on Channel 4. ‘Actually, make that fifteen,’ he adds as he realises he should probably take a long shower to calm his nerves. He swallows, then makes an attempt to make his voice sound as qualified as he can. ‘Is that okay with you, Mr. Barlow?’

Gary feels like his world has turned topsy-turvy. Regrets washes over him in waves, but it’s too late to take back his question now. They’re doing this. _He’s_ doing it. He’s about to pay for sex.

‘Mr. Barlow?’

‘S-sorry?’

‘I can also come round in half an hour if you need more time.’ I know I do.

Mark doesn’t realise this, but his alleged professionalism is rubbing off on Gary. If Mark can be cool about having sex, so can I, he thinks. I do this all the time, he tells himself. I’ll be just fine.

‘Fifteen minutes is fine,’ Gary says, sounding more confident already. He looks lost in thought, then fishes a permanent marker out of his pocket. It’s a necessary evil against the people who always ask for his autograph. If he’s lucky. These days people only ask him for his signature when he has press agreements and contracts to sign. ‘You got something I can write me room number on?’

Mark holds out his arm, palm up. ‘Make sure I don’t have to rub it off later,’ he jokes to cover up the fact that his hand is shaking.

‘I’ll try my best.’ Gary’s sweating like an otter when he removes the cap from the marker. His hands are shaking too, and it’s hard to hide when he’s about to write something down. Mark tries not to mention it.

He hesitates, then presses the tip of the marker against Mark’s upturned arm. He presses it deeper into Mark’s skin, then moves his wrist to make the infinite curve of an eight. The next number consists of one horizontal line, then another one slanting down.

‘Is that a seven or a one?’

Gary adds another horizontal line. ‘It’s a seven. Next one’s a six.’

Room 876: one of the more ‘affordable’ suites in the hotel. Costing you about four hundred pounds per night, the room is laid out in classic French style with a large skyline window, a spacious bathroom with separate bath and shower, and a state-of-the-art television and mini-bar. Mark knows it because he was once asked to deliver an extremely suspicious package there. He still doesn’t know what was in it, although he did get a nice twenty-pound tip.

Way out of Gary’s league, the top three floors are usually reserved for rich entrepreneurs and Dukes and Duchesses. Even Mark’s never been.

Gary draws the final number with a quick, tickling flourish. By the time he’s finished, the barman has already collected their glasses and given them the bill. The price of Coke and two glasses of wine is nothing compared to the number that Gary has painted on Mark’s skin.

‘The eighth floor, huh?’ Mark gives the three numbers one last look, then shakily rolls the sleeves of his shirt back down. The room number is just another secret they share. ‘Must be a very good view, Sir.’

‘It is.’ Gary watches Mark as the last piece of skin disappears underneath his sleeve. Everything is now covered up apart from a slight hint of tanned chest that Mark’s buttoned-down shirt allows. He must look absolutely beautiful underneath all that. ‘Will you know where to find me?’

Mark has to fight the urge to tell Gary that he practically lives here. ‘I’ll be fine, Mr. Barlow.’

As if that concludes their business, they both decide to get off their stools at more or less the same time. Gary makes a movement to give Mark a parting kiss on the cheek, but it turns awkward and Gary’s mouth ends up bumping Mark’s nose. Mark then tries to clear the embarrassing air by giving Gary a professional handshake, but Gary’s hands are so sweaty that he wishes he hadn’t.

‘Guess I’ll be seeing ya, Mr?’

Gary nods a few times. He looks bright red. ‘Eighth floor, don’t forget.’

‘Eighth floor, gotcha.’

‘And Mark?’ Gary adds before Mark can turn on his heel and leave, ‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’

Mark utters the lines he’s rehearsed. ‘I’m just doin’ my job, Sir.’

Gary smiles at him sadly. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s already feeling a profound love for someone who’s merely doing him a favour. ‘I think you’re doing a bit more than that, mate.’

♬

In the twenty minutes that it takes Mark to get to room 876, Gary becomes increasingly unlike himself. He’s feeling nervous and worried and giddy and excited and bloody terrified, and it’s a feeling he hasn’t had since he last performed a new song he was proud of or in fact since he last had great, mindblowing sex.

He’s finally going to feel the warmth of someone’s skin again. He’s finally found someone he can sink into. Gone are the lonely nights. This is _his_ night. I’ve deserved this, he thinks, so why is Mark taking so long?

Slowly but surely, the excited giddiness starts to fade and leaves room only for negativity. As the hands of time move farther and farther down their agreed time, Gary becomes more and more worried. He’s already been through his meeting with Mark a thousand times: the eye-contact, the drinks, the stranger, the question, their agreement. No matter how differently he spins it, it always leads back here, to this meeting.

Gary’s fairly confident he gave Mark the correct room number. (He even opened the door to check the metallic gold number again two minutes ago.) He didn’t say anything to put Mark off. He didn’t come across as a creep. If anything, Mark looked as keen as Gary felt by the time they ordered their drinks. He wanted this too.

So again, why isn’t his stand-in lover here yet? Is he having cold feet? Did he meet a richer, handsomer client on the way here? Is he taking the piss? Could he be a rent boy hired by a newspaper to tempt Gary into bad behaviour that will ruin his reputation? (As if there’s anything left to ruin.) Did Mark get lost or get stuck in an elevator?

Eventually, Gary settles for the latter. Mark must have gotten lost. He’ll knock on Gary’s door any minute now.

The minutes pass. Still nothing. Only the sound of Gary’s own racing heartbeat offers some comfort.

After having paced up and down the entire length of his suite for well over ten minutes, the songwriter eventually relegates himself to his minibar. Hands shaking, he just about manages to pour red liquid into his glass without making a mess of it. He takes a frugal sip, then downs the rest of his glass in one go. The wine tastes bitter and leaves a dry taste in his mouth. It’s worlds away from the sweet, sugary wine he had at the bar that evening. If he didn’t know better, he’s say it’s a metaphor for something.

Gary is about to pour himself his fourth drink of the evening when there’s a single, reverberating knock on the door and he starts so badly that the glass drops to the floor and wine spills out on the beige carpet. 

‘ _Christ_.’

‘Mr. Barlow?’ comes Mark’s muffled voice from the other side of the door. ‘Everything all right in there?’

Gary groans. Torn between greeting his rent boy and cleaning up the red mess on the carpet, he eventually decides to cover up the stain with his black leather jacket before legging it to the door. Literally. He slows down for the last three feet, straightens his tight black t-shirt, then runs his hands through his hair and takes a deep breath before opening the door.

Mark’s in mid-knock when the door opens in front of him and he’s welcomed by the sight of an extremely flushed, red-faced Mr. Barlow. He looks even fitter than Mark remembers, but also extremely suspicious. Wasn’t that the sound of breaking glass he heard a second ago?

‘Mark. Hi.’

‘Hi . . .’ Mark slowly lowers his hand and alternates wary glances between Gary’s broad body and the large space of hotel suite behind him. ‘Is . . . everything all right? I thought I heard somethin’ just now.’

His body now firmly under the influence of wine, nerves and guilt, Gary starts stammering. ‘I was – that . . . that was just the television, that was,’ he lies, and he instantly regrets it. Why does he feel the need to cover up his nerves so much? Mark’s probably used to seeing nervous guys like him. It’s part of his job, after all; Mark’s probably been in charge of popping a few anxious guys’ cherries.

‘I – I mean,’ Gary goes on more truthfully, ‘I accidentally dropped me glass of wine on the carpet.’

The lethal combination of ‘glass of wine’ and ‘carpet’ immediately sends Mark back into ‘member of hotel staff’ mode. For a moment forgetting he’s meant to be a rent boy and not a bell boy or housekeeper, he stalks past Gary’s shaking body in the hallway and makes his way into the French style hotel suite. A big, red stain has been badly covered up by Gary’s leather jacket in front of the mini bar, and Mark has to fight the urge to phone his colleagues and ask them to clean it up. The glass of wine lies in shards on the floor.

Mark tries to ignore the cartwheel his belly makes when he spots Gary’s king-sized bed in the corner a second later. Immaculately made by one of the housekeepers, it doesn’t look like it’s been slept in yet. Four large, pastel blue pillows have been propped up against the head of the bed. A pink plaid to combat the cold has been folded up and left on the bed with almost mathematic attention to detail. Mark knows exactly which of his colleagues did it.

Gary’s oblivious to what is going through Mark’s mind. ‘I’ll ask housekeeping to take care of the mess later,’ he says as he closes the door. He makes a movement to lock the door, then stops when he finally sees the odd, conflicted look on Mark’s face. ‘You okay, mate?’

Gary can only see half of the conflict on Mark’s face; he doesn’t see the conflict between Mark’s actual day-to-day job and the one he’s acting out right now. He can’t, because why would a boy like Mark care about the state of anything other than the bed they’re about to be using?  

The songwriter couldn’t be more wrong, though, for Mark’s used to doing anything and everything that’s asked of him. He’s the first face you see at reception. He’s the person you go to when you’re looking for the spa or gym or swimming pools. Sometimes, when there’s an event in the area and there’s a shortage of staff, he’s the first person the manager goes to when a toilet needs unclogging. He’s the man they ask to do the shitty jobs like pushing up pillows or cleaning a blood-red carpet because Mark always, always says yes. No exception.

At the sight of the stain on the carpet, Mark has suddenly come face to face with the job he’s here to do. He’s not here to carry bags, do errands or clean up people’s shit. He’s here to give someone pleasure. For money. It’s a strange deceit that Mark has been caught into, and it’s one he was, in fact, considering not going through at all. He wasn’t ten minutes late because he had to throw gel into his hair, but because it took him an eternity to get himself together and knock on Gary’s door. Stepping into the elevator alone took him ten minutes.

The thing is, Mark doesn’t lie to people. Period. He’s always honest. He always says please and thank you and he’ll go out of his way to get others what they need. That’s just who he is and always has been. But _this_? Showing up at a complete stranger’s door to have sex with them for _money_? That’s not him. It’s is someone else’s jacket that he tried to put on and discovered too late that it didn’t fit him.

And yet; if he says no _now_ , what will happen then? He’ll have let someone down. Gary will succumb to the lonely person Mark knew he was from the moment they met. He’ll go back to the place that Mark doesn’t yet know Gary is just a bad day away from finding himself in. And more importantly, Mark would have let go of the opportunity to have sex with frankly the most attractive person he’s ever met.

Mark was going to ask Gary to shag him anyway; what difference will five hundred quid make?

‘Mark?’

‘W-what?’

‘I can call housekeeping right now if you’re not comfortable with . . .’

Mark shakes his head. He utters a private apology to whoever will have to clean up the mess on the carpet, then straightens his waistcoat and tries to look as determined as he can. ‘No need,’ he says, and it almost sounds confident. He’s going to go through with this. Whatever it takes. ‘Just remind me not to go on my knees there.’

This casual, unplanned reminder of what they’re here for punches them both in the gut. They half-stare at each other, uncertain and embarrassed like they’re both teenagers who are about to lose their virginities, until Mark remembers that _he’s_ meant to be the professional here. Gary doesn’t look like he hasn’t had sex for ages let alone paid for it.

Mark runs his hands through his hair uncertainly. He can’t even look Gary in the eye when he asks Gary whether he’s got the money. By now, the red stain on the carpet has spread out underneath Gary’s jacket, and a glass shard shines eerily in the light of the chandelier above them. ‘I’m gonna need you to hand it over before we . . . before we do anythin’.’

‘Y-yeah, of course,’ Gary stammers. ‘Lemme just . . .’

Gary starts towards the dresser where he keeps his money. Their bodies brush awkwardly when Gary makes his ungainly way back, and Gary’s hands are still shaking when he procures five hundred pounds from a brown envelope. The notes are bound together with an elastic.

Gary awkwardly hands the roll of money to Mark, whose face by now accurately represents the colour of Gary’s white piano. ‘It’s all there.’

Mark decides to take Gary’s word for it. He gingerly puts the roll of money into the pocket of his waistcoat, then pats it protectively. Five hundred pounds is a lot more than he earns each week.

‘So, er, have you . . .’ Mark clears his throat, then tries to sound more confident. For some reason, the exchange of money has made things a lot easier for the both of them. ‘Have you thought about what you’d like to do?’

Gary shrugs. ‘Just, er, you know, anal. Nothing extravagant.’

Mark lets out a short laugh. ‘I meant right now. To make you feel more relaxed.’

Gary blushes. ‘ _Oh_. I . . . I don’t know,’ he says, and it’s true. He has no idea what Mark could do to him to make this any less tense.

Sensing this, Mark uses the silence to look at Gary properly again. For someone who’s clearly wealthy, he’s probably not as experienced at hooking up as his trained body would have you believe. As a matter of fact, Mark would bet that this is the first time he’s ever paid for sex at all; there’s none of that sleek, smooth confidence that drips off other guests when they take a girl or boy to higher ground. It makes Mr. Barlow even more attractive than Mark ever thought possible. For the first time in ages, he’s finally met someone who’s not like the others.

Mark hesitates, then takes Gary’s hand in his. They’re still shaking. ‘Tell me about yourself, Sir.’

‘I’m not that interesting to be honest, mate.’

Mark cocks an eyebrow. He’s heard that one before. ‘Try me, Mr. Barlow.’

Gary thinks about it. He doesn’t want to tell Mark that he used to be a successful solo artist. He doesn’t want to tell him that his last top 10 single was released five years ago. He doesn’t want to tell him that he used to record songs with Lulu, Cheryl Cole, Elton John and the Kaiser Chiefs and that he’s now been relegated to writing b-sides for nobodies from Universal.

As much as he appreciates honesty, he can’t ever, ever tell Mark that he’s just as wealthy but that he experiences none of the joy and success he did during his heyday. Including the sex.

Eventually, Gary settles for a topic that he can be passionate about. ‘I bought a new piano the other day. Yamaha. I didn’t need it or anything, I just wanted it. She’s a real beauty. Reminds me of the old one I used to have on one of me tours.’

Mark tries to picture it. ‘Black?’

‘White.’

‘Expensive?’

‘You’ve no idea, mate. Cost me a fortune just to get her delivered at me house. Worth it, though.’

Mark has started rubbing Gary’s hand with his thumb. It’s an unconscious yet gentle gesture. ‘I wish I could see it.’

‘Do you play?’

‘ _Nah_. I’ve got a guitar, though.’

Gary’s eyes flick at Mark’s fingers that are intertwined with his. ‘I bet you’re good at it.’

‘I’m all right. I could never be a musician, anyway, I’d get too nervous.’

‘You’ve got the looks for it, though. Bet people would eat you right up.’

While this choice of words makes the conversation run its natural course, it does appear to have calmed Gary’s nerves. His hands aren’t shaking as much anymore. There’s a healthy glow on his cheeks. Mark assumes it’s because he’s finally ready.

He risks the words he’s been meaning to say. Now seems like the good moment to do it. ‘You know we can do anythin’ you want, right?’

Gary nods.

‘ _Anything_ ,’ Mark emphasises, and the squeeze of his hand makes the last remnant of Gary’s nerves slip through his fingers. _God_ , he’s good.

Gary starts stammering again. ‘Y-yeah.’

‘So tell me what you want me to do, Mr. Barlow.’ Mark thinks of the five-hundred-pound roll in his waistcoat. ‘Don’t hold back.’

Gary looks Mark up and down. He feels himself warm up inside just seeing Mark with his clothes on. There’s that shirt, a little more creased than when he last saw it; the brown hair, dirtier, messier, a teaser of what it might look like after they’re done; his cheeks, so bright and red that they make the blue in his eyes stand out. It’s a beautiful, perfect imagine. Right now, Mark is every inch the guy Gary deserves and desires.

Made braver by Mark’s comments, Gary slowly moves his hands to Mark’s shirt. They hover in front of the first button before he moves his hands down, down, down and trails a curious finger down the texture of Mark’s waistcoat. All of this will be his soon. Every single part of it.

Mark can practically see Gary thinking it. ‘Would you like me to take my clothes off, Mr. Barlow?’

Gary nods. ‘Just the top. Don’t rush it,’ he adds. He wants to enjoy this.

Mark starts with the top button. He undoes it as slowly as his client can bear it. The second button follows a couple of seconds later. Then the one underneath. The skinny waistcoat slips off Mark’s shoulders like a silk sheet, and to test Gary’s patience he decides to fold up the piece of clothing underneath the songwriter’s very nose. He deliberately places the waistcoat on the dresser behind him as carefully as he can, then faces Gary again with a deliciously smug look on his face.

He loves this part. He always does.

Maybe, just maybe, Mark can actually pull this off.

Next is that flowery canvas of soft cotton. Mark had already unbuttoned the top button to allow potential lovers a sneak peek at his tanned chest. There’s a small necklace there, below his collarbone. It’s no more than a righteous, religious artefact that has been rendered useless by all the sins Mark’s already committed. He would ordinarily take it off, but not tonight. Tonight, it might be able to protect him still.  

The next button goes. More skin. The third button that goes grants Gary a gratuitous stare at Mark’s pecs. He looks healthy; trained. The fourth and fifth buttons follow suit, and suddenly Mark is completely naked but for the trousers that cover his lower body. He doesn’t bother folding his shirt this time; Mark drops it on the floor as if to say, here I am, Mr. Barlow. You said you wanted me? Come and get me.

Gary’s reaction upon seeing Mark’s half-naked body is almost conservative. He utters an aroused ‘Jesus Christ,’ then places a warm, chaste hand on Mark’s stomach to make sure he’s not a figment of his imagination. He’s not; Mark breathes and blinks like he does. His tummy rises and falls with his intakes of breaths, and Gary almost thinks he can feel Mark’s heartbeat if he concentrates hard enough.

‘Am I what you wanted, Mr. Barlow?’

Gary has been rendered speechless. Mark’s body is almost too tempting in the warm, faltering light of the evening. It curves in just the right places. Taut muscles flatter the lad’s tanned arms. The promise of a tattoo is peeking out from the top of his belt; a dolphin. It’s a boyish tattoo, possibly the result of a drunken evening out with mates, but there’s no mistake about its position. It’s deliberate, it’s tempting: kiss me here, touch me there. Gary’s going to.

Every exposed inch of skin looks ideal for just that, for touching, with Gary’s long fingers trailing a makeshift path of goosebumps down Mark’s abdomen until he reaches the hem of the lad’s trousers. They’re tight. Mark’s hard already. Gary is, too, because he knows that all it takes to make this stranger his is the unbuckling of a belt and the popping of a single, solitary button.

But no, Mr. Barlow’s a true gentleman, he knows what his money’s worth: he softly presses his lips on the boy’s mouth and keeps his hands exactly where they are until Mark pulls away and utters a hoarse, horny ‘Kissing’s extra.’

‘K-kissing’s extra,’ Mark reiterates, his stutter and the blush on his face nearly giving away his deception. For some reason, he’d quite forgotten that having sex usually leads to kissing and vice versa.

Gary makes a long face. ‘Oh.’

‘Sorry. I don’t kiss on first, er, dates usually,’ Mark explains, and it isn’t strictly untrue. He really _doesn’t_ kiss on first dates. Kissing is something you do with lovers you have a tight emotional bond with, not with people you’ve met at a bar and have made some odd, sexual agreement with. However, he does know that Gary’s here now, and there’s no changing that. They _are_ still going to go through with this, so the only logical next step is that Mark charges extra for kissing. He doesn’t know if it’s the norm, but it must be, right? Kissing’s gonna cost this guy extra.

(Even if Mark _did_ enjoy that a little bit.)

‘No, it should be me who’s sorry. I should have known,’ Gary says. Then, ‘How much?’ He doesn’t know if this is the norm either, but he’s going to assume it is.

Mark plucks a random figure from thin air. ‘Fifty.’

This seems like an extortionate price for kissing, but Gary tries not to let the reluctance show on his face when he fishes his wallet out of his pocket again. He opens it and retrieves a brand new 100-pound note that looks almost too pristine for what it’s buying. He visibly hesitates, then pulls at the hem of Mark’s trousers and slips the note inside with tantalizing slowness. He’s not such a gentleman after all then.

‘Happy?’

Mr. Barlow doesn’t remove his hand. Mark watches how it completely disappears inside his trousers and squeezes him there like Gary owns every inch of his body. In a way, he now does. Five hundred pounds and then some will buy you anything. Including bravery.

‘Y-yeah,’ Mark just about manages to say. ‘T-thanks.’

‘May I kiss you now?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Is that a yes?’

‘Yes. Yes.’

Mark hates how nervous he sounds, but Mr. Barlow doesn’t look like he caught it; instead, Gary rasps a strained ‘ _Good_ ’ and pushes his lips on Mark’s with a little more hunger and urgency than before, his tongue teasing his mouth until Mark has no choice but to part his lips and open up for him.   

It’s a good kiss. It’s nice.

 _Fuck_ , it’s bloody good enough to make Mark change his stance on first-date kisses entirely.  

Mr. Barlow tastes incredible. He’s nervous but good. He doesn’t touch Mark in time with his kisses. Mark wishes he would. He’s leaving that for later, when they’re both undressed and Gary’s no longer scared shitless.

It’s over before Mark knows it.

Gary utters an aroused moan against Mark’s mouth before he removes his hand from Mark’s boxers and sends a shiver down his spine. He gives Mark another kiss on the lips, a softer one this time, then gives Mark that same, hungry look as before. ‘Let’s get those trousers off of you, eh?’ he says, and it sounds so achingly gentle that it takes Mark by surprise.

One moment Gary’s kissing him with all that hunger, his hand an inch away from touching Mark properly, and the next he’s so — so _kind_. So warm. He probably won’t do anything Mark doesn’t want him to and yet there’s always a subtle, suggestive sparkle in his eyes that suggests Mr. Barlow wants nothing more than to fuck him right fucking there. No wonder he writes songs for a living. They’re probably proper love songs as well, about butterflies and first times and silk sheets that slip down his lovers’ backs when they ride him right.

I wonder what shagging him will be like, Mark thinks. I wonder if he’ll be gentle then too.

‘Mark? Is it okay if I take your trousers off?’

The answer to Mark’s question, for now, is yes; yes, he will; for while Mark ponders this question, Gary takes his shaky ‘Yeah’ for consent and starts unbuckling his belt. Slowly. Gently. It’s like he’s still waiting for Mark to say no, to give him back the five hundred pounds he took, but Mark never does. He never will. Instead, Mark watches, mesmerised, how Gary slowly loosens his belt and pulls down his zipper.

Mr. Barlow looks beautiful while doing it. He’s less nervous now and more like his old, confident self that used to fuck fans for a living. He can do this better than anyone. Finally the trousers are down, and then Mark’s boxers fall onto the floor with a soft rustling of fabric and he’s more exposed than he’s ever been.

Again the mood changes. There’s him, Mark, as naked as he can be, and the singer/songwriter, still dressed in his tight black shirt and jeans and looking Mark up and down as if he’s no more than a promising slab of meat at the butcher’s.

He’ll never admit it, but Gary’s needy eyes on his body make Mark feel a dark thrill deep in the pit of his tummy. It’s that strange, uncomfortable feeling you get before stepping onto a rollercoaster; the tummy-flipping sensation that sends you crazy seconds before lift-off in an airplane. It’s bloody exhilarating. After all, isn’t the best turn-on of all the knowledge that you’ve turned on someone else?

But Mr. Barlow isn’t done looking yet. ‘Turn around,’ he says in a voice that’s now more dominant than nervous, and Mark does so without complaint.

He can feel now Gary’s eyes on his back, his arse. They’re taking it all in. They’re thinking about what to do with all that beautiful, impressionable flesh. Should Gary keep this skin as is, so soft and beautiful and perfect, or should he dig his nails into it and draw blood until Mark cries out for the touch of soft, tender lips?

He doesn’t know. He wants it all.

Mark wishes Gary would say something. He tries to keep his arms to his sides, but he can’t help but twitch when he feels Mr. Barlow’s warm hands on the small of his back. At least they’re not cold. It’s a good sign, Mark tells himself. Gary can still be trusted.

The hands move down. They’re a coy soft pink against Mark’s tanned skin.

Gary hesitates at Mark’s arse. Any other guy would have spanked him right then, but Gary’s not that type of guy. He never was.

‘Beautiful,’ is all he says. Just that. Beautiful. It makes Mark fill with sudden longing for a man who’s paying him to be with him. ‘C’mere.’

Mark finds his eyelids drooping when Gary’s arms curve round his stomach and pull him closer. They stand in the room like that for a while, Gary holding him while Mark leans back against Gary’s strong body, suddenly desperate to feel not only the texture of Gary’s clothes but his hot, naked skin. It’s the most comfortable position Mark’s ever been in, and yet also the most uncomfortable.

And the worst thing of all?

It almost makes him feel like it’s real.

‘Fuck me, Mr. Barlow.’ It’s been a while since Mark’s said those two words, and he likes how good they make him feel. ‘Fuck me right here.’

Gary ignores the demand. Instead, his hands stay where they are. His tented trousers press against the curve of Mark’s naked arse like a promise, and yet the kiss he places on Mark’s ear doesn’t lose its intimacy. His hands are on Mark’s stomach, where he’s inches away from touching Mark’s hard, erect, glistening cock, but still he doesn’t move for fear of shifting the brief closeness they’re suddenly sharing. ‘Not yet,’ is all he says. I want to enjoy this.

Mark gives a petulant little moan. ‘Why?’

‘I like it slow.’

‘You could _fuck_ me slow.’

Gary’s response remains unchanged. ‘Not yet.’

‘At least let me give you _head_ ,’ Mark counters, and it sounds so deliciously provocative that it almost makes Gary’s cock twitch in his trousers. He can imagine it already; Mark sucking him off, blue eyes flicking up at him in the dark while grabby hands run up his sides. Mark’s mouth looks made just for that, for sucking. For tugging. Every part of Mark was made to give Gary pleasure, from the tips of his fingers to the dolphin tattoo on his stomach.

Spurred on by the thought of having Mark suck him off, Gary’s hands start moving up Mark’s hairless stomach; his abdomen; his chest. They move up, up, up until they reached Mark’s nipples. They’re the only part of Mark’s body that Gary dares touch; everything else still feels out of bounds even though Gary paid more than enough to have Mark’s precious boundaries removed.

Feeling less patient than his client, Mark gives a playful roll of his hips and leans back his head against Gary’s body. What he says next sounds provocative, but it doesn’t mock Gary’s desire for intimacy in the slightest. ‘Please, Mr. Barlow,’ he whispers. ‘I promise I’ll be gentle.’

Gary lets out a nervous exhale against the back of Mark’s head. His strong arms curl around Mark’s taut midriff one last time; a first attempt to pretend he and Mark are actual lovers. Maybe if he holds and touches this stranger long enough, he’ll forget the money he paid. For a second, he might even be able to close his eyes and touch Mark like he would a regular boyfriend. He hasn’t had a boyfriend for long, but he knows he’d love it if Mark was his. _Love_ it.

Eventually, Gary gives in. The draw of Mark’s mouth is too strong to resist for long. ‘Not here,’ he says, and before he knows it Mark keenly grabs his hand and leads him away from the living room where Mark got undressed. Mark’s hungry eyes are on the songwriter’s body throughout; meanwhile, Gary just tries not to look at Mark’s erect cock for too long. (It’s a right handful, that one.)

The walk to the bed feels longer than the nine, ten steps it takes to get there, and by the time the couple arrive at the sleeping area their hearts are positively hammering in their chests. It’s only now that Gary realises quite how huge his hotel suite is with its sofas, pillows, cupboards, two showers, and king-size beds that would be big enough for an orgy or two. He wonders who paid for it. Certainly not his record label; these days, they’re too skint to even be able to arrange a proper getaway car after gigs.

They arrive at the bed. Gary’s legs have by now turned into lead, and Mark has to half-push him onto the matrass to get some motion into him. Some expert pushing up of pillows later, Gary is exactly where Mark wanted him to be; on the bed, flushed head leaning back, legs slightly spread. Mark’s where he needs to be too: on his knees on the matrass, playing with the zipper of Gary’s tight, tight jeans. He likes this bit.

Gary’s trousers take some time to wriggle out of, and they inconveniently turn themselves inside out when Mark tears them off Gary’s ankles. He doesn’t bother folding them like he did his own clothes.

Mark doesn’t give him head immediately. The boxers stay on, for now. Instead, the songwriter watches how Mark’s perfect mouth ghosts over the shape of the cock in his boxers until the tip of a tongue reminds him how fucked up they both are.

For a brief second, the men’s eyes meet in a shared moment of terror. This is it, they both think. We’re actually doing this. What a weird night this is turning out to be.

Mark doesn’t stop what he’s doing for long. His lips kiss the base of Gary’s cock. His nose brushes Gary’s boxers, and immediately a faint, promising aroma of soap and body odour hits him and tempts Mark to bury his face deep into Gary’s crotch. He does.

Gary likes it; he’s begging Mark to take his boxers off, but the stranger won’t let him. He likes Gary like this, all needy and desperate and impatient. He’s saving the sight of hard, thick cock for later.

Mark’s tongue leaves a dark, wet stain on Gary’s black underpants. The tongue moves up, up, up, and Gary has no choice but to take off his shirt and show Mark what he’s been hiding. The shirt clumsily lands on the bedside lamp in Gary’s poor attempt to coolly throw it on the floor, and Gary’s momentary embarrassment allows Mark to look at the body in front of him.

It’s a good sight. A very good one indeed.

Mr. Barlow’s trained, no doubt about it. There isn’t an inch of fat on him but for the slight curve of his belly. Already, Mark feels like kissing him there.

The rest of Gary is all lean, handsome muscle. Mark doesn’t spot any abs, although Gary’s arms do look like they could break a man in two. (In a good, ‘taking you from behind and pulling at your hair’ sort of way.) A slight, trimmed tease of chest hair trails all the way down Gary’s belly until it reaches those tight, wet boxers of his. The stain on the cotton curve of Gary’s cock has grown larger still, and Mark knows it’s not just his tongue’s doing. He’s actually half-tempted to make Mr. Barlow come already, but it’s not worth the mess it makes. He’ll wait. He always does.

Gary finally manages to dump his tight black t-shirt on the desired spot on the floor. He does so rather clumsily, but the feeling leaves him the moment he sees Mark looking at him. He may be bloody nervous still, but he knows precisely how attractive other people find him. His looks aren’t exactly the reason why he couldn’t get laid; his reputation was.

‘Like it?’ Gary sounds different when he talks. Smug. It suits him.

‘Love it, Mr. Barlow,’ Mark says, and Gary’s brain almost registers it as a soft, needy purr. He places a couple of wet kisses on that beautiful slab of hard, flushed flesh, then moves his way back down the curve of Gary’s belly to find his cock harder than ever.

Mark bothers with the teasing no more. He hungrily pulls down Gary’s wet boxers and takes Gary’s cock in his hand the moment it springs free from those wet underpants. It’s promising; about an inch shorter than Mark’s but a lot thicker. He doesn’t envy the guys whose cherries Mr. Barlow popped. That must have been quite something.

What Mark does next defies all description. Gary sees his thick cock disappear into Mark’s pretty little mouth, and he arches his back as a heatwave warms up the very core of him.

 _Christ_ , he’s good.

Mark’s throat is hot and tight. His tongue, always playing, always teasing. Pre-cum glistens on Mark’s chin when he squeezes Gary’s balls and makes his client cry out in both pain and pleasure. Gary’s hands are in Mark’s hair throughout, pulling him closer, holding him tight; but he never does it violently, he never does it with bad intent; for while Gary’s hot and horny and only a single touch away from coming, he’s still a gentleman.

Sweet nothings escape his lips every time Mark moves the tip of his tongue. The moans that he utters always sound tender and meant. His hands linger on the small of Mark’s back, where he wants to kiss and touch him next. There’s the constant chorus of _go on, go slower, keep it up, there you go Mark, there you go_ , and every word is absolutely soaked in sincerity. Gary _means_ this. He loves this.

There’s again that need to re-connect. ‘Look at me, Mark,’ Gary says, and the blue eyes that flick up at him – cock still in mouth – are so fiery and passionate that Gary has to ask Mark to stop for fear of coming already.

Mark does as he says, then smiles at his client in the way that complacent lovers do. ‘You _can_ handle this, can you, Mr. Barlow?’ he teases before coming up for a wet, sticky kiss that’s more than worth the money Gary paid for it. His own taste lingers on his lips before Mark gives him a less provocative kiss on his ear.

‘Don’t get too cocky, mate,’ Gary laughs, and he kisses Mark right back. His hands are still on Mark’s back, rubbing him there. He wishes he understood the meaning of the thrill he feels in his stomach; that subtle, oddly painless ache just below his belly. It doesn’t belong, and yet it does. ‘It’s just getting started, this.’

Mark hums. ‘I don’t think you’ll last for long, you know.’

‘We’ll see about that.’

‘I bet.’

In the brief moment that they spend looking at each other next, Gary hazards the thing he’s been wanting to do ever since he got Mark naked. He hesitates, then makes a circling motion with his index finger pointing down. ‘C’mere,’ he says, sitting straighter again. _Turn around_. ‘Show me that bum of yours.’

Mark kisses Gary’s cheek. His lips move to Gary’s ear. ‘You sure you don’t want me to continue suckin’ you off? I know you loved it . . .’

He’s not sure at all, but Gary nods anyway. ‘It’s my turn.’ He may have paid Mark to let him pleasure him, but he’s not going to leave without having had a taste of this boy himself. ‘Get that bum over here before I make you.’

‘Wouldn’t mind if you did.’ As is his wont, Mark doesn’t protest. He turns around, naked back facing his client, and tilts back his head when Gary runs an unexpected index finger down his spine. It feels like electricity, and not just the sexual kind. It’s the electric spark that flies in both directions when true lovers meet.

‘You’re so beautiful,’ Gary says, and he’s not just saying it because of the money in Mark’s pockets. Mark is utterly beautiful. There isn’t a single hair on his pert arse, and every inch of his skin is perfect and flaw-free but for a Skittle-sized bruise on Mark’s right hip. Probably a previous client’s doing. Gary could never mark this boy like that.

Large hands move down Mark’s sides until Gary can’t restrain himself anymore and he places both hands on Mark’s arse, pianist’s fingers splayed wide.

‘Spread ‘em, Mr. B.,’ Mark says. He’s desperate to be touched. His own hand is on his cock, lazily touching himself.

From this angle, Gary can’t see Mark’s face. He can’t see the parted lips or tightly shut eyes that resemble more pain than pleasure. All he sees is Mark’s back, perfect but for that one bruise, and so he can only _imagine_ the titillating look on Mark’s face when he spreads his arsecheeks and spits on him there. It’s the first time Gary’s done anything rough tonight.

A wet index finger is pushed in. After some teasing, another. Long fingers grip and squeeze and open Mark up inside until he’s begging Gary to fuck him. Not yet, Gary says again and again. Not yet. Instead, Gary stubbornly continues fucking Mark with his fingers. They slip in and out, in and out. Mark’s tight. So tight.

Gary’s mouth joins the equation, licking and kissing him there but never leaving bite marks, not even faintly. Only the friction of Gary’s grey-blond stubble might leave Mark’s skin red.

Then a tongue slips inside of Mark, and it sends him so close to the edge that he cries out. ‘ _Oh my God_ ,’ he moans. ‘D-don’t stop. Don’t stop, _please_. Please, oh God . . .’

Mark’s never known a lover as gentle as this. He’s good, he’s horny, he’s ruthless, and yet Gary’s hands stay on Mark’s body throughout, not to mark him as his but to _guide_ him, to say _It’s all right, it’s okay. You may enjoy this too._

Gary eats Mark’s arse like he’s wanted nothing more. He’s sexual. He’s hungry. Then there’s a chaste kiss on Mark’s cheeks or a soft sweet nothing whispered at the air, and it feels like they’re both lovers. In a way, they now are. They _are_.

So why do they know so little about each other?

At last, Gary stops what he’s doing and leaves Mark’s arse a nice, glistening little peach. He asks Mark to lie next to him, and Mark accepts willingly. He’s about to shag me sideways, Mark thinks. This is what I came here for.

Mark’s about to face a bitter disappointment. Gary pushes the pastel pillow behind him back into shape as tenderly as he can and _actually asks Mark to talk about himself_.

Mark’s heard it right. ‘Tell me about yourself, Mark,’ Gary says seriously, his eyes firmly on Mark’s face and not the cock that he was just inches away from touching. Their naked, flushed bodies that lie next to each other obviously not a distraction at all; Gary really _does_ want to have a serious chat about their respective lives and personalities.

Mark hesitates. He’d rather bend over on the bed and take Gary’s cock there and then, but Gary clearly wants the . . . what’s the word, boyfriend experience. Gary wants the whole intimate lot, warts and chats and all. He’s not just here to have sex.

‘D’you mind if I cover up first?’ Mark says while he waves a hand at his naked lower body. He likes being naked, but not if they’re not doing anything.

‘It’s only a short break. I just wanted to have a quick chat is all.’

‘I know, but I don’t wanna poke someone’s eye out.’

Gary laughs. He acquiesces, and eventually they’re both lying underneath the thin sheets on the bed. It’s somehow more intimate than they’ve been all evening, and they haven’t even had real sex yet. In a way, this is just another way for Gary to pretend that what they’re doing is real.

As Gary makes himself more comfortable, Mark thinks about what he might tell him. He’s not the most interesting person there is, and talking about work is obviously not an option. It’s probably against etiquette to talk about previous clients he hasn’t had, and if he tells Gary he’s actually a bell boy he’d cause a whole lot of trouble he doesn’t want to get into. What’s more, Mark doesn’t travel. He doesn’t go out a lot. He has no juicy sex stories that he can share. (Again, out of bounds.) He has hobbies, and good ones at that, but he doesn’t know if he wants to mention them yet for fear of over-sharing. He can’t exactly tell Gary about his mates, either: Mark hasn’t seen them for weeks because of the toll his job has taken on him lately, and he wouldn’t have a clue what to say about them anyway. Jay, Rob and Dougie aren’t exactly the kind of people Mr. Barlow would hang out with.

Finally, Mark remembers the chat he and Gary had earlier, about pianos and guitars. Maybe he ought to do some sharing after all. ‘I write songs too sometimes, you know,’ he says, and it’s true: Mark Owen, bell boy in a London hotel, enjoys writing songs on blue Mondays.

Gary cocks his right eyebrow. ‘Really? What kind?’

‘Love songs, mostly. It’s just a hobby,’ Mark adds quickly, the casual wave of his hand belying how much Mark enjoys the writing process. ‘They’re not really any good to be honest. I’ve a bunch of lyrics just lying around me bedroom.’

‘It was just a hobby for me too at first,’ Gary says. His body language changes. He sits straighter. Again, Mark has managed to intrigue him. ‘Have you ever recorded any?’

Mark’s flattered by Gary’s suggestion that his songs are any good. They’re not. Underneath the sheets, he gives his cock slow, lazy strokes that he hopes Gary doesn’t see. ‘If I had I wouldn’t be here, would I, Mr. Barlow?’ he points out. ‘Anyway, you still haven’t told me whether you’re successful, you know. I haven’t heard of ya, I think. _Gary Barlow_ . . .’

Mark utters the name as though saying it out loud might make him remember Gary’s singer/songwriter identity. It doesn’t; Gary Barlow the singer is still as much a stranger to Mark as he was when they first met. If Gary’s really as successful as he looks, then he hasn’t done much to make his songs stick out, bless him. Maybe he’s in one of those groups who sing covers for a living.

‘Why don’t I know you, Mr. Barlow?’

Gary shrugs. ‘I could be using a stage name.’

‘You don’t look like the type.’

‘ _You_ do.' Gary leans his head on his hand, then considers everything Mark has told him. He wonders how much of it’s true. ‘How old are you, Mark?’

‘Twenty-six.’

Twenty-bloody-six. _Christ_. ‘Where do you come from? Originally?’

‘Don’t you get a lil’ tired of always asking questions?’

‘Like I said, I’m curious,’ Gary explains, and he leaves enough curious silence for Mark to give in and answer his previous question.

‘Oldham,’ he says. ‘I’m from Oldham. Any other questions?’

‘Just the one.’ (Here, Mark lets out out a relieved huff.) ‘What’s your _name_?’

Mark’s still too much of a hotel employee to understand the complexity of the question. ‘I told ya. It’s Mark. Mark Owen?’

‘I meant your _real_ name.’

Then the penny drops. Gary thinks Mark Owen is his, what’s the word, alias. The idea is quite preposterous. Thankfully, he’s yet too inexperienced to realise that the question itself is almost a step too far. ‘If I’d taken the effort to change my name for this job I wouldn’t have named meself . . . _that_ , would I?’ Mark points out. ‘It’s not very sexy.’

Gary considers this. ‘Haven’t you ever thought about doing it, though? To protect yourself? You know, from bad people? People who can hurt you?’

Gary’s sudden kindness tears Mark up inside. All this money he’s paid, and Gary still considers what _he_ could mean to Mark. Gary is calling the shots, or rather he should be, and yet he cares deeply about not hurting Mark’s feelings. It should be the other way around, with Mark considering all of Gary’s deepest desires along the way, but for some reason Mark and Gary are as equal as if they were lovers. Gary hasn’t yet taken advantage of the position they’re in, and Mark doesn’t think he ever will.

Mark tries to swallow the lump in his throat. What _is_ this strange feeling in his belly? ‘I don’t think I’m the one here that needs protectin’, Mr. Barlow.’ But you do, he thinks. It’s why you’re here.

Suddenly, it’s as if the conversation has taken a whole different turn. This is not just about getting laid anymore. So many aspects of why they’re meaning have yet to come to the surface. ‘Why won’t you tell me about your job?’ Mark asks him.

Because I hate it, Gary thinks. Because I haven’t had a hit for ages and feel like I’m about to hit rock bottom. Because people no longer ask for my autographs and stare at me blankly when I tell them about the hits I’ve had. Because I used to perform for massive audiences and now have to pretend I’m happy when someone tells me I’ve sold out the Manchester Academy.

Upon seeing all those dark, difficult questions reflected on Gary’s face, Mark searches for Gary’s hand underneath the covers. Gary proffers it willingly.

‘You know that anythin’ you tell me will stay with me, don’t ya? I won’t share.’

‘It’s about to turn very therapeutic this,’ Gary laughs nervously.

‘You said you wanted to talk. Let’s talk.’

This invitation warms Gary up. It’s been months, years since someone showed that much interest in him. Even his sparse fans, dotted around the country with their cheap banners and t-shirts, have looked at him with less genuine interest and curiosity than Mark is right now.

More and more, the eyes that stare back at Gary at concerts have a glazed-over look to them. Gary wishes he had a better word for it, but that’s how they appear to him. The fans – often women – are there physically, but in spirit, they’re somewhere far, far different. Even four or five songs in, they’re already thinking about their lives beyond the gig: the parking fares, the queues at the train station, the trip home, the low-quality videos on Instagram and Facebook the morning after. They’re not there to see Gary, they’re just there to cross off yet another experience on their dull, middle-aged bucket lists.

Contrastingly, Mark’s interest is genuine. He’s not just asking these questions because he gets paid for them; he wants to know the answers, too. He’s here for Gary and not just the experience they’ll be having.

After all, what point is there elevating someone’s heartbeat if you don’t know what makes it tick?

After some moment’s thought, Gary looks up at the ceiling. He looks strangely comfortable. Mark follows his gaze, and their eyes land on a large, fat fly in the corner; a sign that the hotel’s spotless reputation perhaps isn’t as good as it seems. It reminds him of a similar ceiling of a hotel room he was in months or years ago, when he came face to face with the reality that his success was as fleeting as his popularity.

‘I know this is gonna make me sound arrogant, but I’ve always been successful,’ Gary begins. ‘Been since I joined this industry really. I mean, I did _everything_. I wrote me first number one single at fifteen. Sold out arenas in me twenties. Could afford me own house in Cheshire by the time I was twenty-five. And I thought, this is my life now. It’s always gonna be like this. I’m always gonna have awards to adorn me living room.’

He pauses to catch his breath. Unlike the rich guys Mark has met previously, Gary doesn’t sound conceited when he talks of his successes. This is just his life, period. Or, rather, used to be; Gary probably wouldn’t be here with him if he hadn’t been through a bad patch in life. He looks like he has.  

He goes on, ‘Then me manager books me for this private event. One of those cheap ones that B-listers and washed-up Celebrity Big Brother stars go to. I told him, mate, I’m not about to put me name on that guest list. He said, it’s fine. It’s just something to get your pic in the papers. The venue looked all right on the website, so I thought, you know what, I’ll just show up and get meself drunk. I might have fun.’

Mark nods. He’s been there too. (Getting drunk and having ‘fun’ at parties, that is.)

‘Anyway, I arrive at the venue at a quarter to nine, this two-star hotel in the middle of nowhere, and it’s a bloody mess, Mark. I mean, it’s bad. There’s no press, no cameras, just a huge fucking spider in the lobby and cheap champagne. Turns out it’s just a local fundraising thing. It’s so low-key even my fans didn’t bother showing up. And the worst thing? No-one knew I was coming. No one cared. One guy didn’t even know me name. And you’re probably thinking, what’s the big deal? These things happen to everyone. Except they don’t, Mark. They didn’t. I used to be a bloody household name, and then one guy, this fundraiser of all people, doesn’t know who I am. And then another. And another. It was embarrassing.’

Mark thinks he understands. ‘You were scared people were moving on.’

‘That’s the thing, Mark. They were. God, they were.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know. They just were. It’s like a fucking epidemic. Cos a week later, I’m told me performance at the Jingle Bell Ball is cancelled. A week later, me new single doesn’t chart. Doesn’t even make the top forty. And for a moment I think, it’s all right this. It’s just a sign I need to push up me game. Write better songs. But I don’t. Whatever I try, everything I write is just complete bollocks. It’s awful. And meanwhile, more performances get cancelled. Journalists no longer bother me about me weight. Fans stop asking me to show up at their bloody weddings. And it isn’t gradually this, it’s _overnight._ One day I’m on top of the world, the next I’m just a nobody with a piano and some songs.’

Gary stops to take a deep breath. It’s the first time he’s shared his feelings with anyone. To his manager and the yes-men at the record label, Gary emits an aura of calm and togetherness. He’s okay with the current state of his music. He willingly accepts most of the invites and requests because that’s what will keep his name out there. He still travels abroad to do ten-minute interviews without having a single complaint. But inside, he’s dying.

Maybe his career is already dead.

The songwriter pulls the blanket closer towards him before making his final confession. He needs to say these words before they spill out of him. ‘And I hate it, Mark.’ He looks at his temporary lover, grey-green eyes begging him for understanding. ‘I fucking hate it.’

Mark doesn’t open his mouth. He lets his hands speak for him underneath the sheets.

He can’t pretend to fully understand Gary’s struggle. He’s never been famous himself. He isn’t particularly successful either, never has been, but he thinks he can see why Gary’s recent struggle for success bothers him so much. This is his _lifestyle_ , swept away from him overnight.

It’s no wonder Gary paid to be with him.

‘I’m sorry you have to put up with this,’ Gary mumbles when Mark stays silent. ‘I know you just wanted to have sex.’

‘It’s okay. It’s what I’m here for,’ Mark says softly. He wraps his arms around Gary’s chest and pulls him closer in an intimate attempt to console a man who’s lost so much. A soft kiss on Gary’s naked skin is only a small compensation for the story he’s told. ‘And I’m sorry you had to go through that. I can’t imagine what that must have been like.’

Gary tries to sound casual, but the grateful hand he rubs up and down Mark’s back belies his true feelings. He’s _hurting_. ‘It had to happen at some point,’ he says, his stomach tied in a knot. ‘I should have seen it coming. No-one’s popular forever.’

‘That doesn’t make it hurt less.’

Gary’s voice breaks. ‘Maybe.’

‘I remember them now, you know. Your songs, I mean. They’re beautiful,’ Mark says, his fingers drawing circles on Gary’s broad, strong chest. Neither of them dares point out how much more intimate they’ve become. Their legs tangled in a desire to be closer, their bodies are now practically the same breathing, living entity, and they haven’t even made love yet.

 _Making love_ – what an odd change in vocabulary.

‘I wish I had written them,’ Mark adds solemnly, and he means it. Gary’s songs are beautiful. There’s _Back For Good_ , with those stunning, evocative lyrics that perfectly describe a break-up; _Pray_ , its video tastefully provocative; _Forever Love_ , a love song for the ages; and then _Nobody Else_ , who could make anyone’s hard, cold heart melt. They’re all perfectly brilliant.

How odd, then, that Mark couldn’t recall the songs before. He too must have been affected by the curse that the music industry laid upon Gary’s music.

Gary manages a weak smile at Mark’s heartfelt compliment. ‘I guess if you had, you wouldn’t be here with me now.’

Mark tries to imagine a version of this night where a poorer, unluckier Gary isn’t rich and unable to afford him; a night when Mark isn’t on his day off in this very hotel on this very night, but his mind draws a blank. He simply can’t picture it. Gary could easily just have been one accidental client in a potential thousand, but for some reason, he feels like they were always going to meet up like this. Gary was always going to be here, just as Mark was always going to find him in this exact state he was in.

This thought raises a few question. This time, _he’s_ the curious one. ‘Has it been hard then? To find love after you’ve . . . you know. After you’ve become less famous,’ he says. He doesn’t really know how else to put it.

Gary nods. ‘I used to have people throwing at me everywhere I went. Men, women, young, old . . . _rich_.’ He chuckles and looks for a moment lost in reverie. It must have been a good past that he left behind. ‘But now, it’s like people don’t want to have anything to do with me anymore. I mean, fans genuinely used to try to sleep with me.’

‘Did they ever have any luck?’

‘If they were fit enough.’

‘Were they?’

Gary blushes. ‘Let me put it this way, Mark, I had a really attractive fan base.’

‘How often?’

‘About twice a week. More if me manager wasn’t paying attention.’

Mark unconsciously moves his hand to Gary’s stomach. Its softness makes it perfect for touching. ‘That must have been fun.’

‘You’ve no idea, mate,’ Gary says. His cheeks have turned a bright red, ‘Christ, I did some bizarre things back in the day.’

This feels like an opening for a new direction of their conversation; a distraction. ‘Care to share, Mr. Barlow?’

It’s strange how Gary can still be rendered a flustered mess after the things he did to Mark with his tongue earlier. ‘I – I don’t think this is the right . . .’

‘Oh _come on_.’ Mark’s hand moves lower and lower and lower down Gary’s stomach until he finds Gary’s cock, still hard from the blowjob he gave it earlier. He’d hazard a guess Gary’s not terribly far away from coming right into his palm. ‘Just one story,’ he presses Gary when no reaction comes. Let me make you feel better, he thinks. Let me distract you from the pain you’re in. ‘ _Please_?’

It’s hard to say no when someone’s touching your cock as delicately as Mark. His hand moves further down, and Gary thinks he can feel his heart come to a standstill until gentle, probing fingers kick-start it back into life. He’s good, this lad is. Too good.

In fact, Mark’s touches are so good that they’re almost magical. Not only do his gentle strokes up and down leave a tingling sensation underneath Gary’s skin like the prick of a needle, they bring back memories unlike any smell, taste or photograph Gary has ever come across. Long lost memories of hotel liaisons, toys, one night stands, blowjobs and backstage kisses suddenly hit Gary like a wave, and he picks the one he’s the least embarrassed of. If Mark wants a story, he’ll get a story all right.

‘All right, but if this story ever hits the press I’ll know you’re the one who leaked it.’

Mark can hardly hide his excitement. He just _knew_ Gary can’t always have been a gentleman. ‘My lips are sealed, Mr. Barlow.’

Gary clears his throat. His head is tilted back and his eyed are closed as if he’s meditating. He tries to focus on the most important details of his story, but it’s hard to concentrate when he’s being jerked off at the same time. ‘I was nineteen, twenty when this happened, I reckon. I was only getting started back then. I mean, I had to do all sorts. Radio promo, photoshoots in local newspapers, album signings in record stores no one had ever heard of, you name it. But I was famous. People knew who I was. I mean, if you ask people to name all me singles now I’m lucky if they name even one.

Anyway, I’m just in the middle of the biggest tour of me life, and I’ve just gone to get changed on the second to last night. I’m still too poor to afford proper stylists or assistants or anything that is generally expected on one of these tours, so I have to squeeze meself out of me black latex pants on me own every night. I only have about five minutes in between acts to do it, so you can imagine the hurry I’m in.’ His eyes open. They’ve glazed over with a dark, intense look; the same look he gave Mark when he got undressed. ‘Then this young, _hot_ guy shows up while I’m in the middle of getting changed. Haven’t got a clue who he is. Still d— _ohh_ ,’ he hisses when Mark touches him right. ‘ _Oh_. Don’t stop.’

‘Wasn’t plannin’ to, Mr. Barlow.’

Mark hasn’t stopped touching Gary throughout his story. As if he knows precisely where Gary’s anecdote is going, every turn and climax is followed by an increase of pressure. It’s accompanied by quicker rubs; a jerk up or down; a kiss on his ear; and then, a soft, inviting word here and there to ease the pain: _go on_ ; _I’m listening. Tell me your story._ Mark knows exactly what Gary needs.

Gary continues his story with difficulty. ‘Anyway, I can tell this guy’s into me. And he’s fucking attractive, Mark. _So attractive_. So I take a punt. I ask him, now that you’re here anyway, mate, could you help me get changed? And I’m telling you, Mark, the next thing he does is get on his knees and suck me off!’

Spurred on by the story’s unexpected turn, Mark quickens his movements. He can already imagine it: a young, more careless Mr. Barlow, half undressed, his hands tugging at the hair of a total stranger. He must have been terrified of getting caught.

‘I bet that was excitin’,’ Mark says, his voice breathless.

‘It was.’

‘Describe it to me, Mr. Barlow. Don’t hold back.’

Gary does so, in detail. He tells tales of a different, less gentle version of himself; tales of a man who did not and would never ask his lovers to lie with him. He did not kiss his lover’s hair or squeeze their hands when they most needed it. He was reckless and ruthless and needy and only a single seven-figure paycheck away from becoming one of the men that make Mark’s hotel life hell. He wanted sex, so he got it. Every single time.

The story reaches its climax. Gary’s words become increasingly shaky as Mark continues touching him up and down, up and down. Words get spoken that Gary never dared share. He speaks of red hot mouths and muffled moans and stains on the front of his jacket that he had to wipe off with his own two hands.

Then come the repercussions: the late arrival on stage; the stranger’s hands that he still felt on his body for the rest of the evening. Then there were the awkward questions; the rumours that he had to pay off; and worst of all, the faces that he has seen in the crowd since, always reminding him of those sinful nights he had with men and women alike. They’re dark, dangerous stories, and once Gary gets started he doesn’t stop. He tells Mark about shagging fans in taxi cabs and bubble baths, and Mark matches his hand to Gary’s brutal honesty. He jerks, he twists, he touches and listens, and eventually Gary becomes so red and so flustered that he has to _beg_ Mark to stop.

‘Stop — stop,’ Gary begs him again. Their naked bodies are still as close as they were ten minutes ago, but Gary’s looks flustered, hornier. His perfect chest has gone a bright red. Pre-cum stains both his belly and Mark’s small, competent hands.

He’s close. Too close.

‘Please,’ Gary tells Mark, his chest moving up and down in large, heavy exhales, ‘I don’t wanna come yet.’

‘Then don’t,’ Mark says. He’s visibly turned on by the stories and Gary’s red hot body too. God, I hope the wait is worth it, he thinks. I hope he’s good as I think he is. ‘We’ve got all the time in the world.’

He places his hands on Gary’s belly as a sort of ceasefire, then kisses Gary on the cheek. It’s such a soft gesture after Mark’s rough, fast touches that it takes Gary by surprise. He stares back at Mark, wide-eyed, while Mark smiles back at Gary’s like he’s the only person that has ever been. His smile has a way of making people feel that way.

‘Really?’

Mark hesitates, then runs a tender, intimate finger down Gary’s cheek until the curve of him lips entice him to kiss this stranger again. It’s just a quick kiss, no more than a peck really, but to Mark it feels like a heavenly instant that he wants to freeze in time and play over and over again.

‘Really.’

Gary responds by kissing Mark right back. Again, the kiss is not quick or aggressive but soft; caring. In the way his fingers draw circles on that strange, unfamiliar skin, he gives Mark that same attention and tenderness as before. In the way he leaves Mark’s lips swollen and moist, he shows what a great flirt he can be. Everything is perfect, from the hands on Mark’s back to the words he swears against his cheeks.

He may no longer do the provocative things that he once wrote songs about, but Gary Barlow is far warmer than any lover Mark’s ever had.

I wonder if I could love him, Mark thinks. Maybe I already do.

Eventually, the kiss runs its natural course. Like most things that evening, it leaves Gary wondering if all rent boys are like Mark. He rather hopes they’re not.

‘Is it always like this?’ he asks.

‘Like what?’

Gary blushes. ‘So slow. I mean, sex.’ He pronounces the term like he’s a child who’s never said a dirty word in his life. ‘With clients.’

Mark doesn’t know about that, so he can only speak for himself and not the rent boy he’s duly become. Usually, he likes to be fucked and taken immediately. Foreplay is nice but it’s not something he particularly craves every time he has sex. (He _loves_ giving people head, though.) He doesn’t particularly mind if the shag is a bit quick, either; the quicker he can make his lovers come, the more he gets off on it. This evening with Gary is probably the first time he’s ever taken the time to get to know someone. 

‘It depends on who I’m with, I guess,’ Mark shrugs. ‘Most men I meet like it quick. You know, rough sort of sex.’

‘You mean . . .’

‘Hair pulling, spanking, that sort of thing.’

‘And you enjoy that?’

‘If it’s what the other guy wants.’

‘But what do _you_ like?’

Mark smiles uncertainly. He’s unsure what his rent boy persona is meant to answer here. ‘It doesn’t matter what I like, does it?’

The rhetoric element of the statement goes over Gary’s head. ‘What if it did, though?’

This question is as surprising and unexpected as their entire evening, for this was never about what the rent boy in this arrangement desired. Mark agreed to their meeting knowing perfectly well that _he_ would be the one doing the giving, not Gary. Even in the crazy stories the singer-songwriter told, he was always the one getting the most pleasure, not the other guy. Why should it be any different now?

‘Mr. Barlow, I’m not the one doin’ the payin’.’ Mark looks at Gary like he’s a veritable teacher explaining a very simple concept to a slow student. ‘This is not about me.’

Except it is. Have they not been equal to each other from the moment they kissed?

‘Please, Mark,’ Gary presses him stubbornly. He’s absolutely adamant that Mark gets a taste of the action too. It’s almost as if he’s quite forgotten that he and Mark aren’t yet lovers. ‘Tell me what you like.’ Underneath the sheets, his hand gives Mark’s big, hard cock a very convincing squeeze. It almost makes him forget what he was saying. ‘ _Please_.’

Mark doesn’t know what’s more convincing, Gary’s expert hands or the encouraging smile he gives him. ‘I’ve never really thought about it to be honest.’

‘Course you have. What are you into?’

Mark scrunches up his nose while he imagines the perfect scenario of love-making. ‘I like to be taken from behind,’ he admits as last. ‘On the bed. You know, with the other guy pressing me down until my bum’s right up.’

For a moment, Mark fails to remember he’s meant to be in-character. He runs a sheepish hand through his hair and looks at Gary shyly. ‘Like you said, nothing extravagant.’

Gary nods. He likes that position too. ‘What else?’

‘I like ridin’. Not too quickly, though. I like it slow.’

Gary likes the sound of that even more. ‘We could try that. I won’t take long, mind.’

Mark feels sudden heat spread from his head to his toes. He practically squeaks of excitement when he speaks next. ‘ _You sure?_ I mean, we don’t have to if you don’t want to,’ he quickly adds when he realises he probably sounded too keen. ‘We can do what you’re into too.’

‘No, I – I like the thing you just mentioned too.’

All of a sudden extremely giddy, Mark doesn’t bother pointing out he’s not the one paying five hundred quid. He gives Gary a big, almost affectionate kiss on the mouth, then excuses himself to get the condom he hid in the pocket of his waistcoat. Gary’s finally going to get his money’s worth!

Mark’s so excited that he skips the teasing. A quick flash of his naked arse is the only thing Gary gets when he reaches for his waistcoat on the dresser, and it’s more than enough. For while Mark is utterly beautiful up close, he’s even sexier like this, when every part of him on show and Gary can only admire him from afar on his messed-up, king-sized island in the middle of the bedroom.

From this angle, Gary can see the entire city of London stretch out before him through the eighth-floor windows, but he has eyes only for Mark. Even his smell is sexy; a faint whiff of sandalwood and cologne still lingers on Gary’s skin when he runs a nervous hand through his quiff. He wishes he could drown himself in it.

At last, Mark’s found what he’s looking for. He reaches into his waistcoat pocket that doesn’t contain the equivalent of a hard week’s work, then fishes out a red condom wrapper. It glints in the light of the bedside lamp that Gary’s left on. Without it, the room would be shrouded in complete, anonymous darkness. Now, a yellow, warm light burns faintly against the curtain of darkness outside. Gary hadn’t even noticed that the sky had already turned black. He was too busy looking at Mark.

As Mark wants to make himself and his so-called client wait just that bit longer, he takes extra care folding up his clothes on the dresser. First, his waistcoat. Then the shirt he left on the floor and the tight trousers he took off after. It gives Gary a brief impression of what Mark would be like if they were indeed together as lovers (with Mark generally being a massive tease and Gary taking on the role as caring, patient boyfriend), and it makes him _yearn_ for more. I’d enjoy being with this lad, he thinks. I bet we’d be brilliant.

And they would.

Gary catches himself staring at the wrapper in Mark’s hand. ‘Are you gonna stand there all day?’ (Okay, maybe not so patient.)

‘I thought you wanted to take things slow, Mr. Barlow,’ Mark teases with that youthful, teasing smile of his. His dimples broaden and his clear blue eyes take on an almost coquettish shine. It drives Gary absolutely mad.

‘I do, but not while you’re holding a bloody condom.’ Gary sits straight, pushes up the pillow behind his back and makes a beckoning motion with his fingers. ‘C’mon. Get that thing over here.’

‘Allow me, Sir.’

The mattress softly dips underneath their bodies as Mark gets on the bed, and the sheets feel like when Mark gently tugs them down and reveals Gary’s still naked body. Nothing’s changed. Gary’s still hard. If anything, the faint wet streaks on his stomach suggest he’s closer than he’s been all evening.

Mark makes the rest look as easy as pie. Ripping the condom wrapper with his teeth is no problem at all. His hands hardly shake when he rolls down the condom so gently that Gary has to hold his breath for fear of crying out.

No effort is made to keep the pressure on Gary’s body light. Fingers deliberately brush sensitive little spots and tickle the songwriter’s senses.

Mark’s good at this, and it shows.

A small bottle is conjured up from a bedside cabinet. With Gary’s eyes on his hands the entire time, Mark slowly spreads lube all over Gary’s cock in gratuitous strokes up and down. He’s probably overdoing it, but it’s worth it for the look on Gary’s face.

Then follows the preparation of Mark’s own body. He squirts excessive amounts of lube on his hands, then reaches back while Gary watches. He teases and teases himself with two, then three fingers until he privately decides he’s ready. They both are. More than they’ll ever be.

They’re ready to make love; not to have sex, but to make love.

This is love. Do they know it yet? No, but they will. They will.

‘You can still ask for a refund, you know.’

‘Not a chance, mate.’

Mark’s still grinning when he climbs on top of Gary’s naked body and straddles the songwriter’s sides with his thighs. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn ya after, Mr. B.’

Mark absolutely loves this part no matter who he’s with. There’s always the building of pressure in his body, the skin around his arsehole being stretched and stretched until it passes the thin threshold between pain and pleasure; the sheer _power_ he feels when he leans back on the bed and starts riding; and then the grabby hands on his body once he really gets going. It’s no different now.

Mark slowly sinks onto Gary’s body, and once he’s let out that first, guilty moan and gotten used to the size and friction of it all he gently starts fucking himself on Gary’s cock. It’s good. He’s slow. Sometimes, he speeds up before slowing down again. And slower. He doesn’t touch his own cock at the same time. Quickly, his body starts glistening with sweat from the effort while small hands grasp the sheets beneath him. He’s long forgotten how their arrangement came to be.

His hips roll like clockwork, and a half-pained, half-aroused expression paints Mark’s features. Eyes shut tight, mouth open in ecstasy, it’s probably the best cum face Gary’s ever seen. It sounds crude, but it’s true. Mark’s bloody sexy when he’s being fucked.

Mark’s loud. Porn star loud. Gasps are alternated with plentiful ‘oh my Gods’ and noisy ‘yeahs’. Gary doesn’t mind it. It’s sexy. It tells him he’s still got it.

Gary doesn’t stay stationary for long. His large hands move to Mark’s hips, helping him; guiding him. Nails leave red marks dolphin tattoos on sweaty skin as Gary’s hands move up Mark’s chest, fingers splayed wide. Just the simplest touch of Mark’s nipples drives the boy mad. Then Mark speeds up again and the pressure starts to build, and Gary’s hand moves to Mark’s neck, pulling him closer.

‘Need to feel you close,’ he rasps. ‘C’mere . . .’

Mark doesn’t complain. He responds like a lover would when Gary wraps his arms around his lithe frame and they lie there as one, with Mark lying on top of Gary’s body and Gary doing most of the work for him.

Gary thrusts. He moans too. He angles his cock so that it brushes against Mark’s prostrate with each move.

Hands are everywhere. Mark’s are half on Gary’s skin, half on the bed; grasping damp sheets tight; Gary’s are on Mark’s arse, spreading and squeezing him until all Mark feels is that thick cock moving in and out of him. He no longer feels the awkwardness or the guilt or his own regret at taking up Gary’s offer. The only thing he can do is let the pleasure wash over him:

‘Fuck me, Mr. Barlow. Yeah, that’s it right there.’

‘Slower, Mr. B . . .’

‘ _Oh my God_ . . .’

What they’re doing transcends expectations. For ten blissful minutes, they forget who and where they are. Each time Gary sinks into Mark’s beautiful, tight hole, stars in his eyes stop him from seeing his own musical fall from grace. Mark’s forgotten who he is too; he’s forgotten that he’s here as a rent boy, a liar and a fraud — all he knows is that he’s Gary lover and that he wants to be nothing else.

They’re close. They both are. Mark doesn’t stop uttering infatuated nonsense. His cock draws wet streaks on Gary’s stomach. Gary’s movements become small; erratic. They’re both half a dozen thrusts away from coming.

Gary wants to postpone the climax. He doesn’t want to go there yet. Every second spent with Mark’s sweaty body on top of him is one he wants to extend until the end of time because it really does feel as if they’re just two lovers who have come together at the perfect time. What he’s doing here isn’t just him paying for sex; it’s something else.

He knows it might just be the hormones that are doing the talking. Sex has that way of making you feel closer to a person you’ve never even met. It’s why he never bothered exchanging numbers with the people he met during his heyday because it would only hurt anyway. After all, most people look different when they’re no longer hidden in the glow of cheap hotel lamps. The next morning, people’s true intentions come out. They’ll no longer want your body, but your success.

Yet he knows, deep in his heart, that something else is going on here. Mark wants him for him, and Gary will do anything to postpone it.

‘Fuck me,’ Gary says, voice shaky. It’s barely a whisper. ‘Fuck me, Mark.’

‘I am, Mr. Barlow.’

Another roll of Mark’s hips. Another step too close. ‘No,’ Gary rasps, ‘n-not just like that . . .’

They both stop what they’re doing. Mark looks down at Gary in a curious, searching manner. A drop of sweat rolls down his temples. He’s sweating all over, and his body glistens in the light of the bedside lamp that they’ve left on. ‘You mean . . .’

‘ _Yes_.’

‘But I thought . . .’

‘Yes.’

Mark runs his hands through his hair. He looks nervous, but not entirely apprehensive. ‘I’m not sayin’ we shouldn’t, but it’s not gonna take very long.’

‘I don’t care,’ Gary says. They look at each other, and sparks fly: true, genuine loved-up sparks. They’re so bright that they could light up this entire room with their potential. ‘ _Please_ , Mark. I . . . I want to feel your cock inside of me.’

This admission is so painfully honest that the butterflies in Mark’s body take over quickly than hesitation can settle. He wants this too.

‘You got another condom somewhere?’

‘In the dresser. Top drawer.’

Mark doesn’t make a show of it this time. He opens the drawer, then takes out the first condom he can find. It’s one of those thin ones that heighten sensibility, whatever that means. He unwraps it – this time with his hands rather than teeth – and rolls it down onto his own cock before Gary can remove and throw away the used one on his.

‘Where do you want me?’ Mark asks as he gets back onto the bed a little awkwardly. Gary’s still in the same position as before, back propped up against a pillow, legs slightly parted. He looks so nervous that Mark almost considers asking him whether he’s actually ever done this before. If he had, he’d probably have mentioned it in one of his stories.

‘Just as we were before. Nothing special.’  

Mark can’t help but notice the nervous wobble in that statement. ‘You _have_ done this before, have you, Mr. Barlow?’

‘ _Mark_.’

‘I’m just askin’. Anyway, did you have anythin’ specific in mind?’

‘Like I said earlier, nothing special.’

‘Nothing special. Got it,’ Mark reiterates, but it’s long daunted on him that what they’re doing is very special indeed. This is not just about loneliness or indeed the five hundred quid in Mark’s pockets anymore; this is about Gary wanting to feel as close to Mark as it is humanly possible to do. Only several hours into this dark, special night, he’s giving a person he didn’t even know two hours ago explicit permission to enter not only his body but also his heart. If that doesn’t tell them that they’ve been pierced by Cupid’s arrows, nothing will.

Mark covers his own cock in lube, then slowly gets into position. It’s been a while since he last topped, and he’s guessing it’s been a decade since Gary was last lying on a bed like this too, with his legs spread wide by Mark’s hands until he can push in at a perfect angle.

He wishes he knew what to say. You don’t speak reassuring words to someone you’ve made an arrangement with, and yet Gary wishes he would.

It takes time. A lot more lube is needed, and Mark has to spend a few minutes teasing Gary with two fingers to prepare him. At one point Mark makes a lewd joke about Gary being too tight, which Gary responds to by turning bright red and muttering apologies about how it’s been three months since he had sex. Mark knows it’s been a lot longer than that.

Mark pushes his cock in slowly, and at the first sign of friction Gary leans back his head and arches his back. It’s fucking sexy. He mutters intimate things under his breath at every stroke (sweet nothings about needing Mark closer; ‘so much closer’), so Mark has to lean over and kiss and kiss and kiss him until they’re both certain he’s ready to be pushed to the limit.

Eventually, Gary opens his eyes and asks Mark if things are ever going to be all right.

‘I don’t know ‘bout that, Mr. Barlow, but things feel really good right now if you don’t mind me sayin’,’ Mark assures him before kissing Gary’s forehead and pushing right in again.

Mark speeds up. His big cock fills Gary right up until sliding out and then in again. He’s quicker than Gary. A little bit rougher, too. His fingers leave red marks on Gary’s skin that will later become dark, guilty bruises on clad thighs. His other hand is on Gary’s cock, rubbing him up and down, up and down, up and down.

Gary’s muttering no longer sounds so sweet. ‘Deeper, Mark,’ he moans, ‘deeper. That’s it, lad. _Oh Christ_ . . .’

Mark’s not holding back. With every roll of his hips, he finds himself creeping closer and closer to the edge until he knows that all it takes to come is one perfect, tingling rub against Gary’s insides. He wants to. He wants to fuck Gary’s body until cum and sweat cover their bodies and they’re just one big, heaving mess of sex before they head to the shower and they wake up in the bed the next morning, warm and alive and together. He desires it more than anything.

‘I’m coming, Gary,’ Mark whimpers, forehead pressed against Gary’s as if just being inside of Gary wasn’t close enough. The thought of them both coming is almost incentive enough. ‘Oh God, I’m gonna come . . . please, Gary . . .’

The mentioning of Gary’s first name rather than the honorific Mr. Barlow doesn’t go over Gary’s head. It makes his chest tighten and tighten with love, desire, affection, and all the other things you’re not supposed to feel when you’ve paid a rent boy until all he feels is Mark’s heart and his own, beating in symphony until they can’t keep it in any more. He desires this more than anything too.

‘ _I’m coming . . .’_

‘ _Yes_. Please, Mark . . . fucking come on me . . .’

‘Oh my _God . ._.’

Mark has just enough time to slip out of Gary’s body and remove the condom from his cock. Like the ticker tape at the end of a concert, the crowning jewel of a good fucking night; the glittering, technicolour rain that makes you forget everything and anything, their love bursts out of their chests.

Stars in their eyes render the boys momentarily blind while their bodies twitch and arch and ruin the bed. Dirty, terrible, regretful words get uttered in the midst of it all, but they’re not the sounds that they’ll remember most; instead, they moan and gasp and chuckle, and when the high of it has long passed, all they can hear is each other’s heartbeats as they lie together, naked and wet and utterly spent.

‘I enjoyed that,’ Gary says after a while. He’s not bothered to clean himself up yet; he quite likes the look of his wet, sticky stomach. Mark’s lying next to him, head on his sweaty chest. It really _is_ as though they’re lovers.

‘Me too.’

A beat. Gary hazards the question he’s been wanting to ask ever since Mark got here. ‘Can you stay? I’ll pay extra,’ he adds when Mark doesn’t immediately respond.

Mark guesses this is the point when an agreement would usually end. He’d probably take a shower if time allowed him, grab his clothes and the money he earned, and leave. He’d spend the remainder of Gary’s stay avoiding the songwriter by doing the dirty jobs on the floors that Gary’s money can’t buy, then forget the guy when he checks out tomorrow.

Of course, Mark doesn’t. And he won’t, ever. He’s not going to forget his trip to room 876 for long. Even when the trace of the room number has long faded from his arm, even when Mark has long walked the walk of shame to the reception, he’ll still be thinking of the night he and Gary spent. This might have to end, but the memories won’t.

‘Of course I’ll stay. And there’s no need, you know.’

‘You’ll do it for free?’

Mark nods. ‘I might ask you to kiss me some more, though. And I do need to get back to work in the morning,’ he adds, having already forgotten that he’s technically at work already.

Gary doesn’t bother pointing it out either. His mind is too clouded by the fact that Mark has agreed to stay here not just for the next five minutes or the next hour, but until morning. It’s much more than his money’s worth. So much more. ‘Thank you, Mark,’ he says before tenderly kissing Mark’s hair again. ‘You’ve no idea what this means.’

‘Just doin’ my job, Mr. Barlow,’ Mark says, but he knows that isn’t why he’s doing it. He’s doing it because being with Gary, as weird as it sounds, is exactly what _he_ wants right now. In the last two hours, he’s found not only someone he can sympathise with and take care of, but someone he thinks he can like. There’s no denying that the sex was great, but it’s about so much more than that; it’s about a fundamental feeling in the pit of his stomach that he doesn’t yet understand but wants to.

For one night only, the strangers can pretend that they are together. Tomorrow morning they’ll have to decide whether this is something that can last, but for now all they need is each other as they talk and kiss deep into the night.

♬

The boys forgot to draw the curtains after they’d cleaned up and gone back to bed, so the rising sun is their natural wake-up call. Gary’s the first to wake up, and when he sees that Mark is still lying in his arms, he again feels that odd feeling in his chest he hasn’t felt for years. It’s similar to the titillating feeling he gets before going on stage, but then again it’s not very alike at all. These days, performing makes Gary feel nervous and out of his depth; contrastingly, seeing Mark here makes him feel safe and wanted.

Gary enjoys the comfort of Mark’s body against his for as long as he can cherish it. A few minutes later, Mark wakes too. Gary is the first thing he lays his eyes on, and it makes him break out in a smile that shows off his dimples. ‘ _Hey_.’

Truth be told, Mark can’t even remember falling asleep. One moment they’re talking about music and guitars and the amazing sex they’d had in the dark, the next Mark wakes up to a warm, familiar hotel room covered in sunlight. What a beautiful transition.

‘Hey.’

‘How are you?’

‘All the better knowing that you’re still here.’

Mark looks up. ‘You thought I’d go?’

‘I don’t know how these things usually go.’

Neither do I, thinks Mark. ‘They go like you want them to. You ask me to stay, I stay.’

‘But you do have to leave.’

Mark makes an apologetic face. It’s slowly beginning to daunt on him that he’s still expected to show up at work in less than an hour. He can’t imagine how he’ll keep up the pretence by working the reception this morning, so he’ll probably offer to do some cleaning while he waits for Gary to check out and leave.

Gary already knows the answer, so Mark doesn’t have to utter it. As if the brutal truth of their upcoming separation needs compensation, Mark throws his arms around Gary’s chest instead and pulls him closer. He quite liked lying on top of Gary’s chest when he dozed off last night. ‘Sorry.’

Gary hesitates. ‘Another client?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Handsome?’

Mark pictures his boss, the head of the hotel. His wealth never made it to the sartorial aspects of his life, so Mark’s boss spends most of his days dressed in ill-fitting suits that make his beer belly look like a sack of potatoes he stuffed underneath his jacket. And he’s a decent boss, bless him, but his face looks like a squashed bull dog’s. It’s probably why every other member of staff is so attractive.

‘Not really,’ Mark says.

Gary looks relieved. ‘Rich?’

‘Very.’

‘ _Oh_. Richer than me?’

Mark gives Gary a stern look. ‘Mr. Barlow. Please.’

‘Sorry. I’m just curious is all.’

‘ _Jealous_ , more like.’

‘I-I’m not jealous,’ Gary stammers guiltily.

‘Sure, Mr. Barlow.’

This is another comment that’s completely off limits in an arrangement such as theirs, but they’re still too high on last night’s activities to remember their respective places. Instead, they spend the next ten minutes as they are, with Mark lying on top of Gary’s chest while large hands rub circles on his naked back, until the loud ringing of a cell phone indicates the start of a new work day. Mark’s, of course.

Gary looks round him for the source of the sound. It’s a rather strident ringtone. ‘Is that _your_ phone?’

‘ _Er_. Yeah. Wait.’

Much to Gary’s chagrin, Mark decides to get out of the bed then. He gives Gary another perfect flash of his naked buttocks before he puts his boxers and trousers back on and half-walks, half-shuffles to the dresser where he left his waistcoat. He retrieves his phone from the same pocket he put Gary’s money in, then turns off his alarm clock. It’s 7:30 AM. His shift starts at eight.

‘Your alarm clock?’ Gary asks.

‘Yeah.’

‘You meet clients in the morning?’

Mark runs his hands through his hair. It’s disconcerting how easily the lies are beginning to roll off him. ‘This one’s very particular.’

Gary doesn’t see a reason to argue with that. He gets up, then starts getting dressed too. He cluelessly looks around the room for his clothes until he remembers he nearly knocked over the bedside lamp with his clothes several hours ago. His boxers are too stained to put back on, so he fishes a new pair from his suitcase; Star Wars ones.

Mark spots Gary putting them on. ‘That’s cute.’

Gary turns a little scarlet at that. ‘A – a mate got them for me.’

‘Whatever you say, Sir.’

They put the rest of their clothes on in complete silence. They do it slowly, too; it’s almost as if they’re consciously delaying their inevitable parting.

Helping each other get dressed feels too intimate still, so Mark excuses himself to the bathroom to put his shirt back on and wash his face. Meanwhile, Gary makes a careful job of putting on a brand new shirt and running a comb through his hair. He knows there’s no need to make an effort anymore, but he unconsciously chooses a tight shirt that shows off his trained upper body. It’s like a part of him hopes there’s a future for him and Mark; one that involves just as much money but even more butterflies. Maybe there is.

There probably isn’t.

Mark’s returns from the bathroom smelling faintly of expensive hotel soap. His eyes fall on the leather jacket that Gary used to cover up his wine stain. ‘I’ll ask someone at reception to take care of that in a bit.’ He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt; an unconscious habit. The faint traces of the ‘876’ that Gary drew on his lower arm are still visible. He’ll scrub them off later. ‘You got any plans for today?’

This seems like a very ordinary question to ask after what they’ve shared and been through, but Gary answers anyway. Today’s a relatively quiet day, thank God. ‘Am leaving the city at eleven. Then I’ve got some promo lined up in Oxford later.’

‘Television?’

‘Local newspaper. They’ll probably ask me three questions about me workout routine and forget to mention I’ve a new record out this month. Me eighth album, can you believe it?’

Mark ignores the melancholy tilt at the end of that sentence. ‘What _is_ your workout routine?’

‘Running. Some yoga. Healthy food. Mind you, I probably won’t have to work out today after what we did last night.’

Mark chuckles. ‘Probably not.’

Gary casts his eyes at the floor. He has that shy, nervous aura about him again. He has a feeling Mark won’t stay, so he’s going to milk this as much as he can. ‘I enjoyed it, you know. All of it.’

‘Any part in particular?’

He knows he probably sounds like he’s just asking for feedback, but he’s genuinely curious what Gary loved most and to be fair he just wants to extend their time together just that little bit more. Mark knows what _he’d_ say, all right; he absolutely loved it when Gary asked him to fuck him. _Loved_ it. The way Gary arched his back when Mark entered him . . . and then how absolutely _tight_ Gary was, with his body wrapped around Mark’s hard dick so perfectly . . . Fuck, that was the best moment of all. _So good_.

But that wasn’t the only highlight of the night, on no; for what Mark loved most was when Gary came onto his own stomach and Mark followed suit only a minute later, their bodies so close and perfect and in-sync and exquisitely fitted together that they might as well be the same person. It was the closest Mark had ever been to anyone in a long time, and also the last time he’ll ever feel like that again. He’ll be lucky if he ever sees Gary again at all. He knows this is it.

Predictably, gentle Mr. Barlow doesn’t see his being fucked as the highlight at all. ‘I liked the cuddling the most me,’ he says after a bashful moment’s thought. ‘That – that was my favourite moment that. And the fucking. But mostly the cuddling. You’re a very good cuddler, Mark.’

Bless him. ‘You’re somethin’ else, Mr. Barlow,’ Mark says. He hesitates as though he quite wants to say something else, then turns quite red and shakes his head distractedly. Whatever he wanted to say, he has thought better of it because the voice in his head that says he has to get back to work is far stronger. Eventually, one of them has to come face to face with the fact that this cannot last.

Mark is that person. Instead of telling Gary about the thought that just popped up, he decidedly folds his five-hundred-pound waistcoat over his arms and holds out his hand to Gary. Gary shakes it, but not without looking a little disappointed.

‘So this is it then, eh?’

‘Yeah,’ Mark says a little reluctantly. He tries to conjure up the inner professional he was channelling last night, but it doesn’t hide quite how shaky his voice sounds. He covers it up by giving a short cough. ‘Yeah, it is.’

‘Will I ever see you again?’

The real Mark, the one that spotted Gary across the bar, the Mark Owen who is kind and thoughtful and gentle in the way he kisses his lovers, wishes that were the case. Deeply. Everything in him is telling him to keep Gary close. Something happened last night that was more than casual sex. They _shared_ something. Heck, Gary even shared a little too much when he finally admitted who he was last night. You don’t just walk away from that.

But on the other hand, Mark is more than aware that what he and Gary are doing _is_ still just an agreement that they signed up for by exchanging an awful lot of money. It’s nothing more than a formal appointment, and like all appointments, this one has to end too. It has to. That’s what happens when you meet someone to have sex with. Besides – and this is a really big deal-breaker –, what if Gary didn’t felt the butterflies Mark did? What if Gary thinks of him as nothing more than a rent boy? And even worse, what if Gary eventually finds out about Mark’s true identity, about his deceit, and decides he wants to have nothing to do with him anymore? The lies would just spiral out of control until there was no going back.

No, it’s better this way. They’ll have to see this as a casual one-night stand and nothing else. That way, no-one gets hurt. Mark won’t have to deal with finding out that Gary doesn’t like him back, and Gary won’t have to deal with the inevitable fallout of Mark’s lies. It’s better for everyone.

This has to end even if it hurts.

Mark doesn’t answer Gary’s question. He leaves it hanging in the air. Whatever affection they shared a couple of minutes ago has to be tucked away.

‘Take care of yourself, Mr. Barlow,’ Mark says instead of saying the one thing Gary needs to hear most. He gives Gary a formal kiss on the cheek, and it’s so soft that both men have to close their eyes to cherish it. Like the love they made last night, the gesture is almost painfully tender. Why are they doing this? What made them suddenly decide that parting would be the best thing there is?

It isn’t, Gary thinks. This isn’t right.

‘And find someone,’ Mark adds when he backs away slowly. His eyes look sad, but his voice is as hard and professional as if he were truly a rent boy. ‘Find someone who can get you out of here. I mean it. You’re a good guy, Gary.’

I can’t do this, Gary thinks. I don’t want to. _I don’t want to._

Mark gives Gary one last look, turns on his heel, opens the door and disappears into the quiet corridors of the hotel to never be seen again. He shuts the door quietly, but to Gary, the soft _thud_ sounds like a thunderclap.

Standing as though petrified in the empty hallway, eerie morning quiet penetrating his thoughts as only the faint sounds of his colleagues downstairs reaches his ears, Mark regrets his decision immediately. He just _left_. He actually did that. He opened the door and left. But why? Because he still has his regular job to go to, yes, but _why_? Why bother? Why not just call in sick and stay with Gary for the remainder of his stay _because he wants to_?

He wouldn’t be in it for the money, that’s for sure; he’d do it because it feels right. He’d do it . . . because he felt something not from the moment they made love, but from the moment they met. It was right there, like some sort of strange spell that was cast over them. And it’s wrong, yes, and Mark did take advantage of Gary’s loneliness, yes, and he _did get Gary to pay him_ , oh yes, but for some reason everything that’s good about their meeting far outweighs the bad.

Why is that, Mark wonders. Why was everything they did so wrong and so deliciously bad at the same time?

♬

Gary has to deal with the regret on his own. Except he doesn’t know how. He’s written a million love songs about getting together and being left, and a million more about falling in love and falling out of it, and yet he hasn’t got a clue why this particular instance on this particular morning hurts so much. He knew this would happen. Of course he did. It’s what always happens, whether he’s paid the guy or not.

But it _aches_. God, it aches.

He tries to distract himself. This is not like you, he tells himself. Get over yourself.

Even back in the day, one-night stands were just that: one-night stands. He’d pick up a guy at the record label or in the back of a taxi cab, and take them back home. Then they’d fuck, cuddle if Gary was lucky, pretend to be completely in love with each other and eventually say their goodbyes the same night or the next morning.

They’d never exchange numbers. They never even kissed. At the end of the day, it was just sex. That’s it. _Sex_. Sometimes it was good, usually it wasn’t. Gary was usually too drunk or too high on his success to give a shit anyway. But Mark . . . Mark was different. Gary paid him to be with him, and yet — and yet there was something in the way they made love that made it more than that, something that made it —

But it can’t have been, Gary thinks, I haven’t felt that way for years.

Except he has. Just now. This morning. Last night, he felt it when Mark kissed him.

And it was real. All of it.

And Mark felt it too.

‘ _Gary_?’

There’s a knock at the door. In desperation and knowing exactly who’s outside his door, Gary launches himself towards the door in four large, quick steps and opens it so fervently that the poor thing knocks against the wall quite noisily. He’ll probably get billed for that.

‘Mark. Hi.’

‘Hi.’ Mark’s fumbling with something. He looks as flustered as Gary feels. ‘H-how are you?’ he asks, suddenly having forgotten that he saw Gary only two minutes ago.

‘Good, yeah.’ Gary glances at both ends of the corridor. He doesn’t think Mark’s moved since he walked out of the door. ‘Did you actually leave, or?’

‘I did, but then I walked back again.’

So Mark came back for him. God, he hopes it’s not just because Mark forgot something.

Instinctively, Gary looks over his own shoulder to give the bed and dressers a quick scan for Mark’s personal items. ‘You . . . you didn’t lose something, did you?’

‘No.’

Gary tries to keep his voice level, but it’s hard to hide what he’s feeling inside. (Mark came back for him!) ‘So why are you . . . ?’

Mark forgets to stay true to the character he made up and turns absolutely scarlet. ‘I was just – I realised I’d – I’d . . .’ He holds out the piece of paper he’s holding. It’s a piece of hotel stationery that he quickly folded up and scribbled on. ‘I forgot to give you my number. So . . . so here.’ He raises his arm, and Gary accepts the piece of paper with shaking hands. ‘You can call me if, you know, you want to . . . if you want you want to make another appointment. Or if you want to have a chat about stuff. Or — or cuddle.’

Gary’s staring at the piece of paper in his hands as if he’s holding an ancient artefact that needs special care and attention. The number looks like an ordinary mobile phone number. ‘Is this your private number?’

Mark gives a small nod.

Butterflies. They’re definitely here now. ‘Do – do you do this for all your clients?’

‘Just the ones I trust. I don’t . . . _do_ second meetings usually,’ Mark says, meaning ‘second dates’ in his head. ‘You’re the first one I’ve offered. You don’t have to call if you don’t want to. But . . . but I wouldn’t mind if you did, you know.’

Mark doesn’t need to explain himself further. His bright, nervous eyes flick up at Gary’s, and Gary knows instantly that he’s telling the truth. He must have felt ‘it’ too. The butterflies. The need. The desire. But most of all, he must have heard and felt that raised heartbeat that had absolutely nothing to do with what they were or weren’t doing; the heartbeat that became synchronous with the other’s until they really _were_ as one.

It’s funny what a chance meeting can do.

Gary’s the first to make an offer. ‘I’ll call you next week, maybe? Tuesday sound good?’

‘Tuesday, all right.’

‘I don’t have to pay for it, do I? Just asking.’

‘Only if you want to have phone sex,’ Mark says in jest.

‘Is . . . that an option? Again, just asking.’

At the end of the day, this is not just about sex or secrets or indeed about money. It’s all because of the spark that lit up between them the moment they met; that weird, wrong, sexy spark that illuminates Mark’s bedroom with Gary’s number as soon as it flashes on Mark’s phone the next morning.

‘It is now, Mr. Barlow.’


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks after they met, Gary asks Mark if he wants to join him at a fancy party for singers, producers and record label executives — all expenses paid. Mark's more than happy to pretend to be a rent boy for one more night and be Gary's plus-one and part-time lover, but little does he know that the world he's built for himself is about to fall apart...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two of this has been stuck in my drafts forever, but I never got round to post it. Hope you enjoy.

_— 11:36 Are u available for parties ?_

The text comes during one of Mark’s busy morning shifts, and he has to type a quick reply with his left hand while he poorly handles a guest’s check-in with his right hand at the same time.

_—11:37 What kind of parties are we talking about, Mr. Barlow?_

The guest in question, a posh man in his sixties, spots Mark’s phone immediately. Having just been on a six-hour flight, he grows increasingly more impatient at Mark’s slowness and starts sprouting nonsense about how the ‘youth of today’ spend too much time glued to their screens. Mark doesn’t point out that the guest walked into reception with his brand new iPhone stuck to his ear.

‘I’m sorry, Sir. You’re absolutely right, Sir,’ Mark utters like a benevolent robot stuck on repeat. ‘Could you please repeat your last name so I can complete your check-in, Sir?’

The guest does so. It’s followed by a deep sigh and a quick look at his watch, one of those expensive Apple ones. ‘ _Do_ hurry up, boy. I do hate it when I’m late for my meetings.’

Mark apologises again and types in the man’s name. Distracted, he gets it wrong. The guests notices.

‘It’s O’Brien with an E’, the guest sighs, arms crossed, ‘not an A! Must I spell it out for you?’

‘No, Sir, thank you, Sir, that’s very kind of you.’

Mark tries again and finally finds the man’s booking. His eyes flick through the information on the screen in front of him, hardly taking any of it in: three nights’ stay, British breakfast, wake-up service at six each morning, room 435, fourth floor. Any room below the fifth floor is usually reserved for middle-class tourists and people on group holidays; in other words, Mr. O’Brien with an E isn’t that deserving of Mark’s four-star treatment as he thinks he is. It’s as though people just assume jetlag and expensive watches make it all right to treat hotel staff like shit.

‘ _Well_?’ Mr. O’Brien has proceeded to tap his fingers on the desk. His face has gone beet red, and he reminds Mark of a tomato that’s about to burst. ‘Have you found it or not?’

Mark tries to stay calm. He thinks back to the training he had years ago. _The client is king, the client is king, the client is king_. ‘Looks like everything is in order, Sir,’ he begins, but then his phone buzzes again. He tries not to glance at the screen, but he does and receives another condescending sigh from his impatient guest.

‘ _Important_ , is it?’

_— 11:41 It’s a music exec’s thing w lots of important faces. Producers and so on_

And another loud buzz three seconds later, which nearly makes Mr. O’Brien’s eyes roll out of his skull:

_— 11:41 Tomo evening, in rainy Chester. Will pay for any expenses ?_

These words – _expenses_ – make Mark turn absolutely scarlet, and he struggles to find the thread of his thought. He stumbles with his words; nearly knocks a pile of maps and hotel pamphlets on the floor. Trembling, he shoves a key card in Mr. O’Brien’s hands and almost forgets the words he’s rehearsed over and over.

‘Y-you’ll be staying in room 435, Sir. Breakfast is from six to ten on weekdays and from seven to eleven during weekends. If you need anything, you’ll find the phone number of the reception on the back of your key card.’ Mark stumbles through these words, and he forgets the part about the wake-up service. He also doesn’t mention when Mr. O’Brien is meant to check out again.

Mark tries to compose himself; flashes his guest one last smile that he doesn’t quite pull off. Another quick glance at his phone tells him he’s got another text, but the message is so long that his lock screen refuses to display it. He wishes Mr. O’Brien would disappear.

‘W-would that be all, Sir?’

‘Would that be all!’ the guest reiterates, mockingly. For a moment he looks as though he’s about to scold Mark for his appalling service; threaten to speak to the manager maybe, but then he decides not to. Seeing that a long queue has formed behind him, he just flashes Mark an angry look that could have burned Mark’s skin and saunters away, hot-footed and red-faced.

Mark doesn’t dare look at his phone for the rest of his shift. He _wants_ to, but he’s already gotten into his colleagues’ bad books by ‘slacking on the job’ and doing ‘too much daydreaming and not enough cleaning’, and Mark doesn’t want to risk being sacked.

He absolutely hates this job – even more so since he slept with Mr. Barlow and got paid for it –, but there are bills and other expenses that need to be taken care of and frankly Mark can’t see himself doing anything else. There is his future now. (And he _is_ rather good at it when he’s not busy daydreaming. His boss has said so himself.)

By the time Mark’s shift ends, Mr. Barlow has sent him four more texts. Mark quietly slips into a staff toilet during his break to read them.

_— 11:55 They’re a bloody chore these things. Am meant to socialise w famous producers and other artists at this posh event and need someone to make me look good !_

_— 11:57 u said u wrote songs didn’t you ? If ur serious about it I could get u in touch w some ppl_

_— 11:58 I’ll pay u. Usual charge plus extra for putting up w me ?_

Mark scrolls through Mr. Barlow’s texts with shaking fingers. They’ve been sending texts back and forth ever since they met (innocent messages about how’s life in London and have you heard that new song by The 1975), but this is the first time either of them has initiated something even remotely intimate.

It was as though, for a time, Mark and Gary could actually pretend they weren’t bound together by a six-hundred pound thread. For a few weeks, they were nothing but two acquaintances; just two men who had a shared interest in music and the simple things in life. But now, Mark’s being transported right back to wine-stained floors of the seventh floor, where Mr. Barlow paid to have sex with him.

Mark fails to find the right words to send back. He plays with the idea of telling Gary he isn’t available that night, then writes this; tries to slip back into the rent boy persona he effortlessly adopted one evening:

_— 1000._

Seeing the number makes Mark feel sick. Guilt tears at his insides and makes him feel so dizzy that he has to steady a hand against the bathroom stall.

It’s probably too high. Mr. Barlow will probably see right through the charade and say it’s too much. One thousand pounds is too high a price for a body Mr. Barlow has already borrowed.

Alas:

_— 12:12 OK_

And a few moments later later:

_— 12:13 Will we still have sex tho ? Just checking !_

Mark feels himself flare up as he imagines the bright red blush on Mr. Barlow’s face as he wrote that. Since their one-night stand, Mark has come to remember Gary as shy, aloof; a little rusty perhaps; but still a good lover. If he tried, Mark could still see the quiet hunger in Gary’s eyes as he got undressed in front of him; still feel those long pianist fingers fuck him expertly. He can also still remember the cuddling they did after, which was perhaps the loveliest moment of all. (And kinda hot, if you’re into cuddling.)

Gary was soft and needy and sad and desperate and warm all at once, and it tears Mark up inside that they aren’t actual lovers. He’d like them to be, if only so he could feel Gary tense up inside him again; and smell the scent of Gary’s cologne as they came; but what good are two lovers if they need money to stick together? Gary may have been the best shag Mark’s had for a long time, but what does that actually mean?

Mark thinks about it. He hesitates. Then replies:

_— 12:16 Of course._

And when Mark’s double checked that he’s all alone, he slips his hand inside his trousers and adds:

_— 12:16_ _I’ll do anything you want, Mr. Barlow._

♬

Gary hasn’t stopped thinking about Mark since they met. For an earth-shattering second on a night that lasted only minutes, it was as though life finally made sense and ceased to be the depressing drag it once was. Life suddenly turned into a technicolour dream that Gary didn’t want to stop and almost _didn’t_ : in a strange, ethereal attempt to make art imitate life, Gary’s latest single suddenly shot to number 35 in the charts. Just because. Divine intervention had made his life bearable again.

Of course, Gary wasn’t stupid. He knew that Mark has had clients like him before and since. Their night might have been special for _him_ , but for Mark it was just business. That’s all it was, business. A way to make money. But two weeks after they’d shagged, the texts still hadn’t stopped, and Mark still hadn’t become bored with him, and it wasn’t hard to imagine that what they had going on might actually be a little bit special. It _felt_ special, and that’s what it was.

So when Gary was asked to attend a ballroom event hosted by his record label, Mark was the first person he thought of. Gary would have to make himself look like he was still worth investing in (he’s not), and who better to make him look good than Mark Owen? Mark would know how to smile at famous producers. Mark would know how to flutter his eyelashes at the head of a major record label and coax them into giving Gary a new record deal.

In other words, Mark would have to be his date.  

Gary didn’t want to ask Mark, at first. He still didn’t know the first thing about paid sex or escorts or whatever it was that Mark did or was, and he wasn’t sure if Mark even did anything outside of a hotel room. (A quick Google search also didn’t help: googling “Mark Owen” only conjured up some unrelated images of a footballer Gary didn’t know, and no adult websites where Mark’s preferences would be laid bare in helpful bullet points. Mark Owen, the rent boy, simply didn’t exist.) What if Mark said no and rejected him?

Thankfully, nothing of the sort happened: Gary decided to text Mark in a brief moment of bravery, and Mark quickly replied that he’d do it. He’d asked for a frankly ridiculous amount of money, but then again — did Gary really know any better? Mark could be offering him a 15% discount for all he knew.

(But Gary knew absolutely nothing, and so the sum of one thousand pounds was shakily agreed upon.)

Fast-forward to the night of the party, Gary’s again pacing up and down his living room like he did two weeks ago, when he was waiting for Mark to show up on his hotel doorstep. He’s nervous, and it shows: his hands shake and his legs feel like they’re made of jelly. Unsure whether to stay in the living room or wait for Mark to ring his bell in the hallway, he keeps hovering between rooms; terrified to stay in one place in case his demons catch up with him.

Eventually, Gary settles for his living room. Like the rest of his house, which is as large as a small amusement park, it’s sizeable, with ivory and eggshell furniture making the space look almost too virginal. There are no other colours, just white. Two sofas make a sort of L-shape in the middle, and both of them have been carefully dressed with frilly snow white blankets that can easily be put in the washing machine should Gary feel the need to fuck Mark in the living room. (He won’t; his dry cleaning costs are high enough as is.) There are hardly any private photos. Only an untouched white piano is a reminder of who Gary Barlow is.

Every now and then, Gary unbuttons his black shirt and then buttons it back up again. The party he’s going to will be attended by a lot of influential figures from the music industry so showing skin is not entirely encouraged, but at the same time Gary doesn’t give a shit. He wants to entice Mark to suck the skin round his collarbone; remind him of the body he’s hiding. He doesn’t want to go to the party looking like the uptight, washed-up songwriter people wrongly think he is.

In the end, Gary settles for a tie.

Minutes pass. Gary reminds himself Mark was late for their first time too. It’s probably all just part of the act, he thinks. Get him hot and bothered before the real fun starts.

He sits. Then stands, then sits down again. He feels lost for a moment. He runs a hand through his blonde hair and straightens his jacket. He’s done more of an effort this time: he’s wearing a black suit and tie that matches his body type. His trousers are tight, but not too tight. He hasn’t remembered to shine his shoes.

He checks his phone. There’s a new text from Mark, from two minutes ago:

_— 18:13 Am going to be late. Fifteen minutes._

Another one arrives just as Gary unlocks his screen.

_— 18:15 Will make it up to you, promise._

The words make every sliver of impatience in Gary’s body disappear. He can just Mark imagine saying that to him, with that delicious pink mouth of his. _I’ll make it up to you, Mr. Barlow._ He loves it when Mark calls him that.

Mark’s text makes Gary feel wanted. Appreciated, but at the same time even more impatient than before. He wonders what else he could make Mark do in his bedroom tonight.

He sends Mark a quick reply and regrets it almost immediately:

_— 18:19 Care to share a pic while I wait ?_

He knows it’s a risk. He and Mark did talk about their ‘preferences’ over the phone (Gary: sex on the night, preferably somewhere secure like at home; no kissing in public; no touching at the party and if Mark could please wear one of those jockstraps or how do you call them; Mark: anything really as long as it’s not bareback), but he’s still not entirely sure where Mark’s shift ends and where it begins.

Is Gary only a client when he and Mark are together? Are Mark’s texts part of the service Gary’s paying for? Has Mark remembered that Gary likes cuddling after sex? Does Mark always send his clients links to artists he thinks they ought to be listening to (Clean Bandit just the other day) or is he already texting other clients about their upcoming meetings and why does that make Gary feel so nauseous?

Gary wishes he knew. He thought he understood how this sort of thing worked by now, but now that he’s seeing Mark again he understands it even less.

Mark doesn’t reply for the longest time. Gary doesn’t blame him. Then:

_— 18:25 I don’t do pics._

And immediately afterwards:

_— 18:26 I mean, I’m in a taxi and I can’t get my willy out._

Fair enough, Gary thinks. I’ll just have to wait a bit longer then. It’ll be worth the wait, he tells himself again and again, but he doesn’t stop to consider how Mark must have felt when he got that text. He doesn’t know how _scared_ it made Mark feel.

_— 18:30 Sorry, Mr. Barlow. I know you wanna see my willy again x_

The text makes Gary laugh. It’s been a while since he’s felt this giddy about someone, and it helps that his career is looking brighter too. Sure, a #35 single would be enough to postpone a new artist’s career indefinitely, but it’s good enough for him. There’s life in the old Gary Barlow yet, and for just one night he’s happy to pretend that everything is all right and that his career is like his sex life; with the wheels slowly going back into motion, one cog at a time. Perhaps it’s just the sex that’s making him see things better than they are, but does it really matter? He’s feeling bloody brilliant, and it’s all he’s ever wanted.

Another text rouses Gary from his train of thought. It’s a text from his manager, and he’s so busy moving his fingers into a quick reply that he doesn’t notice the black cab arriving at the other side of his house.

The cabbie has to remind Mark that they’ve arrived. ‘We’re there, lad,’ he says with the impatience of someone who just wants to get paid.

But Mark’s not listening, and hasn’t been for the past ten minutes. Like on the night he first knocked on Gary’s door, he’s again hit with a sudden wave of anxiety. The tall, expensive walls of Gary’s house laugh at him tauntingly; mock him for being just another thing money can buy. The size of it is sickening. Everywhere Mark looks, there are windows and expensive curtains and ostentatious stone steps and rich grass patches and flowerbeds with a dozen different roses. The cab driver’s window is open, and Mark thinks he can hear a fountain. His _hotel_ doesn’t even have one.

The sights are a brutal eye-opener. At the end of the day, Mr. Barlow is just another rich guy. A kind one, mind, but a rich guy nonetheless. It should be exciting, but Mark has met so many rich guys at his reception desk that every sign of new money feels nauseatingly exhibitionistic.

Mark hesitates, looks down at what he’s wearing: a tight black jacket, not too formal, with a simple black dress shirt underneath. A patterned scarf is tied loosely round his neck. It’s red, like someone choked him and stabbed his neck and left him bleeding to death. It’s the only thing on him that Gary’s money didn’t buy. Before he left, Mark decided to take off his cross necklace and leave it at home.

The cabbie again has to remind Mark that they’ve arrived at his destination. Mark rouses awake and fumbles for a forty-pound note in his pocket. It’s crumbled, and he has to scrape the rest of the money together with a handful of coins.

The cabbie grumbles a dissatisfied thanks and Mark steps out onto the end of the driveway, where a short set of stone steps lead up to the house’s front garden. At the top of the stairs, he can make out a curving gravel path that splits into three directions; one leads to a Japanese pagoda in the far distance, and from then on Mark decides to call the house a mansion.

He walks up the stairs slowly. There are only seven or eight steps, but it feels like twenty and by the time he reaches the door his legs have turned to jelly. For a moment, he’s reminded of his journey to Gary’s hotel room two weeks ago; it took him fifteen minutes, but it should have taken him five. Pressing the lift button alone felt like a plunge into the deep end.

It’s the same now. Mark’s nervous. He can hear the gravel groan and grind as the cab drives away from him, and it’s like his safety net has been taken away from him. He can’t go back now. The walk down the driveway would take him fifteen minutes at best and then where would he be? He’d be stuck in the middle of nowhere, and if Mr. Barlow ended up to be a rich creep after all then Mark would probably lose a lot more than just his innocence.

But Mr. Barlow isn’t a creep. Mark knows that; he felt it, like intuition. Mark felt Gary’s own kindness and virtue in the way Gary looked at him and held him in bed; and he saw it in Gary’s eyes right before they came and blissfully rode it out. There’s more there than just money and sex — but right now, it’s hard to see past the white bricks that a million pounds built.

Mark figures he has no other choice. He can either ring the doorbell or make Gary’s gravel driveway the longest walk of shame he’s ever walked.

He presses the button. He doesn’t hear the bell ring out, so he presses again and hopes Gary isn’t busy playing the piano or listening to music on a pair of headphones.

Only two seconds later, Mark thinks he can see a shadow sweep past the window on his right. Next, he hears the sound of footsteps; of a lock being opened. His heart starts beating faster, and he foolishly wonders if it’s not too late to disappear behind a tree or bronze statue or other garden ornament. He could still say this was all a big bloody mistake.

But then the door opens, and it’s as though time freezes and explodes. There’s no going back.

‘Mark.’

‘Mr. Barlow.’

They take each other in shyly. There’s Mark, dressed in his best black jacket and shirt, and then there’s Gary, dressed in a suitably funereal black suit. They make a right miserable pair, the two of them. Only the silk flash of red wrapped round Mark’s neck remind them that they’re headed to a fun party and not their own wake.

Mark sees Gary staring. He feels himself flare up and looks down at his own body. ‘It’s not too formal, is it? I’ve – I’ve never been to one of these things before.’

Gary shakes his head and tries to shake the bad thoughts that Mark’s red scarf conjure up inside of him. ‘No, it’s fine, mate. You – you look brilliant, mate. Bloody brilliant.’ He then looks conflicted; looks as if he’s about to jerk forward and shake Mark’s hand or kiss him or do a bit of both.

Mark notices, smiles. Already, he can see a red flush creep up Gary’s neck. ‘You _can_ kiss me already, you know.’

The kiss that Gary gives Mark next is terribly disappointing – a  soft peck on the cheek that’s so quick that Mark can’t even feel Gary’s stubble –, but he can’t complain when Gary grabs his hand and leads him into his own private mansion. Their hands fit perfectly, and by the time they’ve walked down the long hallway it’s as if their hands were made and welded together by the same machinery.

Mark no longer regrets coming here.

They take so many twists and turns that Mark feels dizzy by the time they reach the living room. Along the way, he thinks he can count about a dozen gold records and even more gleaming statuettes and awards, each more beautiful than the last. He doesn’t have time to spot that the most recent one is from five years ago.

After what feels like ten minutes or more, a hundred miles in miniature form, they walk into the living room. It’s so _huge_ that Mark has no idea how to describe it: everywhere he looks, he sees white furniture; expensive porcelain vases; silk pillows that look like they were spun by caterpillars in paradise; and finally, one bronze statuette that takes centre place on Gary’s white mantelpiece. Mark thinks it’s an Ivor Novello award.

It’s hard to take it all in. He knew Gary used to be a successful songwriter, but Mark’s never considered all the riches this success must have translated into. It’s as if Gary decided to collect every shiny object he could find and show them off here, in this ridiculously ostentatious mansion in the middle of nowhere, like a magpie who’s had its wings clipped.

Mark isn’t sure whether he’s supposed to envy Gary or not.

There are two ivory sofas in the middle of the room, and Gary tells Mark to have a seat while he gets them something to drink. Again, Mark settles for a bottle of Coke.

Gary’s away for a long time, and Mark’s mind conjures up an image of Gary getting lost in his own home, forever haunting the halls of his mansion. It’s an utterly ridiculous image, and Mark’s grinning by the time Gary returns from the kitchen.

Gary hands Mark his glass of Coke and sits next to him on the sofa. ‘Something happen while I was gone?’

‘It’s this house. I think it’s the biggest I’ve ever been in. My entire flat fits in here,’ Mark says, thinking about his tiny London apartment, where the wallpaper is barely still sticking to the walls and wet carpet smell stains the air. He doesn’t say it mockingly.

Gary tries to picture Mark’s apartment too, but the image he comes up with is far glossier. He imagines something akin to the Playboy Mansion, but smaller and with more men. Mark _is_ a rent boy, after all; he’ll probably be able to afford a decent flat what with the money he earns.

‘Where’d you live?’

Mark takes a big sip of Coke before answering, then thinks he can see a photo of Mr. Barlow performing at the O2 Arena and says, ‘Near Greenwich.’ (Mark doesn’t live near Greenwich.)

Gary knows it well. ‘Oh, I love Greenwich. It’s where I bought me new piano, actually,’ he says, jabbing his thumb at his precious white Yamaha in the corner. ‘I even managed to get a discount, can you believe it? Which reminds me . . .’

Here, Gary flushes a little and reaches for something on a small table behind him. The colour drains from Mark’s face when he sees what Gary’s holding: a roll of brand new £100 notes, even thicker than the roll that came before it. It’s _obscene_.

Mark tries to accept the roll with dignity, but he can’t help but notice the layer of fear in his own voice when he speaks next. Gary doesn’t catch it. ‘Thank you, Mr. Barlow.’

Again, Mark doesn’t bother counting and quickly puts the notes in the pocket of his black jacket before he gets cold field. Then he sees Mr. Barlow looking at him a little expectantly, and he realises that he’s waiting for Mark to kiss him, like a gentleman. (Or a child. Or both.)

Mark realises it’s up to him to break the ice. He flashes Gary one of his reassuring smiles even though he doesn’t feel at all reassured himself.

‘C’mere, Mr. Barlow,’ he says as coolly as he can manage, and he cups Gary’s face and kisses him right where _he_ needs it: on the mouth, with Gary’s hands already grasping the textures on his back. He can tell that Gary’s hands are nervous, but then again — aren’t Mark’s too, shakily curving down the shape of Mr. Barlow’s neck like he hasn’t already kissed and sucked it a dozen times?

Mark’s more than aware of the money in his pocket; of the slender fingers he knows will later squeeze and pry him open because that’s what they agreed upon. They already know exactly what’s about to happen and have put it into the wet stone of a text message and a phone call, but then why does it still feels so fucking terrifying?

_This is fucking terrifying._

They break apart. They give each other a nervous smile, and the world falls back on its axis. Maybe this isn’t so bad.

‘I’m glad you’re here, mate,’ says Gary, and he means it. He’s glad Mark’s here because it’s the only way he can imagine himself getting through a night like tonight’s.

Mark sees Gary thinking it, sees the anxiety that today’s party will bring. He leans forward with his glass of Coke in one hand and touches Mr. Barlow’s thigh with the other. ‘Tell me about tonight.’

Gary shrugs. ‘There isn’t much to say to be honest, mate, just that I’m bloody dreading it. It’s no more than a glorified staff party, really. There’re gonna be people from Universal and a few others as well and I’m meant to flutter me fucking eyelashes at just about everyone and get them to hook me up with better producers, that sort of thing. I’m surprised me manager didn’t have business cards made cos the room’s gonna be full of people who’ve never even heard of me. So it’s all about getting me name out there, this thing.’

Mark remembers the way Gary had spoken about his record label earlier. ‘Sounds like a test.’

‘D’you know what, Mark, I think it might be. If the guys from Universal see that other people aren’t interested in me then there’s no point in still having me around, is there?’

‘Do you think they’ll drop you?’

‘Maybe. I did score a top 40 hit the other day and to be honest I’m fucking thrilled with that, mate, really thrilled, but I know me label aren’t.’ He looks at Mark a little slyly. ‘I guess I just need someone to get me through the whole thing.’

You mean you needed a reason to fuck me again, Mark thinks, but he doesn’t say it out loud, and Gary doesn’t mention it; as usual, Mr. Barlow would rather talk about Mark instead. What have you been up to lately, he asks, and did you listen to that pop song I sent you the other day?

Mark has no choice but to lie a little. He leaves out the part where he spent an entire afternoon cleaning shit off a bathroom wall and skips to the bit when he saw an all-female band in concert just the other day. Gary knows the band too, and they talk about their favourite songs and the violet picture disc they’ve both pre-ordered until there’s no more drink left in their glasses.

Already, it feels like a more comfortable evening than their first — and yet stranger because they haven’t done anything yet, not even gotten undressed.

Mark doesn’t want to ask the question, but he’s going to. He places his hand on Gary’s thigh again, a little higher this time. (Gary responds by going red, bless him.)

‘Mr. Barlow, when you said you wanted _sex_. . .’

The answer follows almost immediately. ‘Not yet.’ Gary says it with impressive restraint, but there’s still that look at Mark’s hand on his thigh, the quick glance at Mark’s neck where there’s that godawful red scarf that he wants to wrap around Mark’s lithe body a little tighter. ‘Need something to look forward to.’

Mark knows he can’t argue with that, so he doesn’t; he just gives Gary’s thigh a squeeze and kisses him again. Deep down, he thinks he already knows Gary better than that.

They talk some more. Gary shows Mark the white piano that he bought in Greenwich three weeks ago, and Mark asks him to play him a song. Gary does. The sight of Mr. Barlow’s fingers touching the piano makes Mark wish he had black and white keys running up the curve of his spine, and Mark has to look away when Gary’s too lost in his tune to notice. Mark doesn’t ask Gary to play another, and Gary doesn’t offer.

The conversation returns to the concert Mark’s been to. Gary notices that Mark has a tendency of staring into the distance when he talks about a melody he likes; eyes bright blue and dreamy like his memories are just in reach. Gary wishes Mark would look at him in the same way, but what he doesn’t know is that Mark already does, and will time and time again.

Eventually, Gary decides that Mark’s eyes are the best thing about him — _and_ his laugh. One time Gary made a really bad joke about what did one snowman say to another, and Mark looked at him like he wasn’t sure laughing was allowed, and he ended up laughing anyway and it was the most beautiful thing Gary had ever heard.

One hour in, and they still haven’t fucked.

♬

‘I can still feel u inside’ was the first thing Gary nearly texted Mark the day after they’d fucked. Then Gary remembered what Mark was and who _he_ was and how creepy it must be that a client was sending Mark texts like that, and he settled for ‘yesterday was fun’ or something or rather. But the sentiment stuck, because Gary hasn’t stopped feeling Mark inside of him ever since they met.

Even as they get into Gary’s Mercedes and Mark protectively taps the pocket of his jacket when he thinks Gary isn’t looking, Mark is still the only think he can think about. It’s the one thing on his mind, and Gary’s happy it is because it’s far better than knowing he’s just one bad rotation away from cocking up his career at a party. Maybe with Mark by his side, it won’t be such a bad night after all.

Gary doesn’t drive. Instead, they’ll be driven to the party by a gentle giant who intrudes himself as James, and it’s the last time James says anything before a translucent partition in the car slides up and he’s prevented from saying and seeing anything. He’s known Gary a long time, James has, and he knows the guy Gary’s brought along is the first date he’s had in months, years even.

He and James have never talked about it, because that’s not what are security guards _do_ – they’re always meant to be looking _outward_ , not at their clients – but the lack of love in Gary’s eyes could have been noticed by a child. He’s no longer excited when James drives him to parties and award shows and gigs anymore. He no longer goes on dates or takes people home with him in the middle of the night.

Privately, James hopes this new guy is there to stay.

They depart. Gary has been in his car a thousand times so he doesn’t think it’s that special anymore, but to Mark it’s like entering yet another world that he isn’t familiar with. The glass is tinted. The backseat is more comfortable than most sofas he’s ever sat on, certainly the one he has at home. There’s a sound system in the passenger doors that looks terribly expensive. And in front of him, next to the glass partition, he thinks he can see a small television screen and a DVD player. It’s ridiculous.

Gary sees Mark looking. He’s surprised Mark’s not been one of these before. Maybe he _does_ only meet clients at hotels. ‘Don’t get used to it, you’ll be crying out for a pit stop before you know it.’ He runs a finger along the smooth beige inside of the passenger door, where there’s a small nick from when he tried to smuggle his keyboard inside. He was hungover then. ‘It’s not that special.’

Mark’s not so sure about that. He nods his head in the driver’s direction. ‘Do you ever drive yourself?’

‘Only when I’m abroad. You ever been to LA? I love driving there.’

Mark shakes his head. He’s never been anywhere, just Manchester and then London when he moved there with his boyfriend. Then they split up and Mark had no choice but to move into a cheap London apartment above a struggling fish restaurant, and everything went downhill from there really. His pay packet allows him to pay the rent and have enough money left at the end of the month to afford cheap live shows and cute pairs of trousers every now and then, but it’s not the life he ever envisioned for himself. Now that he’s had a taste of the glamour, he’s not sure he ever wants to go back to spending the rest of his life working at reception.

Gary’s voice brings Mark back to the here and now. ‘You know what I love too? _Vegas_. It’s absolutely ridiculous, Vegas is. It’s just a city built on vice really, but it’s like walking into a theme park where everything’s been blown out of proportion. There’s even a casino shaped like a circus tent, can you believe it?’

‘You ever been gambling there?’

Gary groans. ‘No. Never. I did bump into several Elvis impersonators, though.’

Mark’s eyes light up at that. ‘Really? I love Elvis. I do a great Elvis impression. But only when I’m really drunk.’

‘I’d love to see that.’

Mark gives a suggestive little hum and tries to imagine himself in Vegas, walking the length of The Strip with a bag full of Elvis memorabilia in one hand and a handful of slot machine chips in the other. But in every image he pictures, Gary’s there too, sun-kissed arms wrapped around Mark’s skinny body as they bathe in the gratuitous Vegas sun. It’s almost obscene.

Mark gives a shake of his head to get rid of the thought. ‘Were you ever big in America?’

‘Not really. Me biggest single – _Back For Good_ –, that did well on radio for a few weeks but I just didn’t see the point of having to go through the whole bloody cycle of promotion again, especially in those days. I mean, it’s really only a handful of British artists that managed to break into the American market while I was big and they were all better than me! And it was harder then. You didn’t have things like Twitter or Youtube to get yourself noticed without having to visit every single radio station in the country. And the song charted in about 47 other countries, anyway, so it’s not like I had to, back then.’ He scoffs. ‘Look at me, I’m beginning to sound like I’m in me sixties.’

Mark laughs. ‘You don’t look a day over twenty, Mr. Barlow.’

Mark’s lips make the comment sound almost suggestive, and they take each other in again. Mark wishes he could kiss every single line on Gary’s face, from the lines next to his eyes to the crease between his eyebrows that make for a lovely frown; and Gary just wants to _dive_ into Mark’s youth till he drowns in it. But Mark doesn’t know if he’s allowed to initiate anything yet and Gary’s too scared to try, so they just smile and try not to let their hands touch again.

‘Don’t you wish you’d taken the chance, though?’

‘Breaking America? God, no. It’s paradise, America is. No-one knows me, no-one bothers me for me autograph . . . I mean, no-one knows me here anymore either, but it’s different. People look at you differently.’ Here, Gary suddenly stares at his hands as though he doesn’t know what to do with him, and Mark’s confident he’s lost his client to the grasp of melancholy again.

Mark tries to make it better. ‘It’ll be all right, you know,’ Mark says, not knowing anything. ‘You’re not going to mess this up.’

Gary sighs. He stares out of the window; looks at the trees and ponds and villagers that he knows aren’t looking back at him. ‘I don’t know, mate. Maybe it’ll be my last hurrah, this last single.’ He shivers even though he’s not cold. ‘I wish I’d said no.’

The line of trees that surrounds the country lane they’re on suddenly stops dead, and they can see long grass of fields rush by on either side of the car. The sun is going down, and Gary simultaneously looks younger and older. In a certain light, he resembles a teenager who’s about to appear in front of his headmaster for bad behaviour; in another, the experience that he carries with him is evident in every single line and crease on his face.

Mark decides to address it. ‘You’re nervous, aren’t you?’

‘Terrified, mate.’ Again, that tired sigh of his. ‘I know it’s probably not a big deal, this party, but it feels like it is!’ 

Mark feels like he’s supposed to do something Gary’s nervousness. His new persona kicks in. He looks at the tinted partition and thinks of the money in his pocket, then softly touches the inside of Gary’s leg, not caring if the driver can see it and certainly not caring if he’s the one who’s meant to initiate these things or not. ( _Is_ he? He’s not sure.) The gesture makes Gary look up, suddenly alert. His lips are parted in a soft protest, but no sound comes out.

Mark tries to remember the voice he used for their phone calls; attempts to bring to mind all the dirty things he whispered in Mr. Barlow’s ear while they fucked. He settles for a soft purr while he moves up his hand and feels the heat radiate off Gary’s thigh. ‘You know I can take care of those nerves of yours, don’t you, Mr. Barlow?’ He knows how ridiculous he sounds, but he no longer cares. He keeps talking. ‘I’ll do anything for you. Just give me the word.’

Gary says nothing. He swallows, then stares at the partition too. He looks down at his crotch, expecting to see Mark’s hand gone, but it’s still there, fondling him — that same gentle hand that left an imprint in him and held him when he needed it most. He thinks of what they discussed over the phone, about not having sex in public and keeping things simple. This is — he doesn’t know what this is. Would this count as public sex? Maybe. Maybe not.

‘What do you think, Gary?’

Still Gary doesn’t speak. He’s afraid to. Perhaps if he doesn’t voice what he wants Mark to do to him then it won’t feel as real.

But it’s real, all right; it’s very real indeed: Mark’s fingers loosen his belt and pull down his zipper, and it’s not until Mark kisses his temple that Gary gives a curt nod and leans back his head. He’s going to let it all wash over him.

‘Be gentle with me, Mark. _Please_.’

‘Always, Mr. Barlow.’

The mouth that cloaks itself round Gary’s cock is as tight as he remembers it being, but it’s those wet lips on his belly that Gary loves and cherishes most; and the soft pecks that pulse like butterflies in his tummy. He comes softly and quietly against the curve of his own hard body only minutes later, and James hasn’t heard a thing.

♬

The mansion that the party is held at is even bigger than Gary’s, and it reminds Mark of those imposing country houses you always see in big-budget period dramas on ITV. It’s absolutely beautiful, and yet the neon lights that illuminate the rooms on the ground floor are blindingly ugly.

On all sides, the mansion is surrounded by vast stretches of green. A large hedge maze can be seen up a hill, where the back garden is. Statues of naked, curving bodies line up the driveway and stare back at the guests with their hard bronze eyes. The men and women who get out of their expensive cars don’t resemble record label executives and washed-up artists with a short shelf life, but superstars. The song that pours out onto the mansion grounds from the mansion’s grand entrance is surprisingly loungey, and not at all like the music that Mark was expecting.

In a way, it’s just another world that Mark is entering. First, there was Gary’s white mansion, with its white sofas and white pillows and grand white piano to make up for the sins he’s committing; then there was his car, pompous and gratuitous in its practicality; and now this, a house to match the grandeur of the kings and queens of the music industry. It’s almost ridiculous.

Mark thought he was used to rich exuberance by now, but the four stars on a London hotel can easily be acquired from the sky. This here is the _real_ thing, and yet it isn’t like the real thing at all. Where are the struggling artists? Where is the busker on a city corner, her voice barely audible in the hustle on a street? Which part of this display has anything to do with popular music at all?

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Gary says suddenly. He looks down at his expensive black suit, brushes the velvet to get rid of the dirt that isn’t there. ‘I hate it too.’

The comment gives Mark a sense of relief. ‘Is it always like this?’

‘It didn’t use to, not when I started out anyway. It was pure then. I mean, this — it’s all just for show, this. The people who go to this sort of thing, they don’t know what it’s like to be an artist. I mean, I used to do fucking everything to get me name out there: do interviews for local newspapers, do signings, perform at pubs, gay clubs,’ he adds, with a suggestive raise of his eyebrows that makes Mark’s imagination run wild. ‘And don’t get me wrong, I love having money. It’s not a bad life, this, it really isn’t. But I don’t take it for granted and I hate that me career depends on people who’ve probably never even brought an album out. That’s what this party is. It’s just people pretending to know everything there is about music when it’s actually the artists who matter, the young singers who record tracks in their living rooms. If I were a young artist now I’d probably never even get an album out.’

Gary’s passion is admirable, but frankly Mark stopped listening after Gary’s comment about gay clubs. He hopes Gary doesn’t mind him asking about it. ‘What was performing in gay clubs like?’

Gary chuckles. He seems happy to have his thoughts drawn away from the desperate display of riches in front of him. ‘Really weird, to be honest. Used to have a lot of people pinching me bum, men and women. Great audiences, though.’

‘Did you ever hook up with a fan after?’

Gary cringes. ‘You ask a lot of questions, Mark.’ An observation, not a complaint.

Mark laughs. He knows he told Gary the exact same thing the first time they met. ‘Have you, though?’

Gary colours violently and gives his answer with unexpected honesty. ‘Oh, yeah. Ended up doing it in one of the toilets. I never even saw his face if you know what I mean.’

The comment sends Mark’s mind into overload. For only the tenth time in the past four minutes, Mark’s again reminded about Gary’s hard cock in his mouth that evening; can again feel how Gary pulsed and moved against his lips. He licked the cum off Gary’s belly drop by drop afterwards, and Gary’s eyes were on his throughout. It was _glorious_.

‘A fan gave you a blowjob?’

‘Worse, mate. Way worse.’

Mark’s eyes go wide. He doesn’t want to picture it, but he does, and his cheeks turn a deeper shade of pink. ‘Wow.’

‘Yeah.’ Gary scratches the back of his head. ‘Told you the nineties were better,’ he adds, but Mark has a feeling he doesn’t mean it. He’s already known this man long enough to know that just having one-night stands in hotel rooms and toilets will probably never fill the hole that music has left in Gary’s heart.

It’s clear from the way Mr. Barlow talks about the music industry that he just wants to be loved and adored, nothing more, and it’s both reassuring and sickeningly terrifying because Mark knows he can never give Gary that. He’ll never be able to hold and caress him beyond an evening like this, not ever. There will always be money involved, whether they like it or not.

But it doesn’t stop the men from pretending that love is exactly what they’re giving each other. James parks, and they kiss each other on the mouth one more time, softly but passionately. When they get out of the car Gary’s no longer so nervous, and Mark thinks he can feel butterflies that he wrongly blames on not having had any dinner. What a delicious mess they make.

The next few minutes are a blur. They enter a long queue of people, and by the time they reach the entrance ten or fifteen minutes have gone by. Gary shows the bouncer his invitation and introduces Mark as his plus-one, and off they go. Mark almost grabs Gary’s hand as they enter, but then he remembers the rule about no touching in public and digs his hands inside his pockets instead. He hopes no-one saw them trembling.

The party itself takes place in a grand ballroom with little islands of important people gathered round cocktail tables. Located at the back of the house, its tall windows overlook the green maze that Mark saw on the way there. Rooms and hallways that guests aren’t permitted to enter have been curtained off by red velvet ropes like they’re precious artworks at a museum. Security men stand guard over the areas that are too large to shield off with red velvet alone.

Seeing the secrecy sends a thrill through Mark’s chest. Already, he wishes he could leave the crowded ballroom and explore the rest of the mansion. In old times, did two men ever tiptoe through those halls in secret, hand in hand? Did lovers ever find themselves in a bedroom they’d never been in? Mark hopes it to be so.

Gary glances at Mark. His date seems absolutely enthralled by the extravagance of it all, but Gary’s not at all sure. Everywhere he looks, he sees groups of glamorous people dotted around the room, all laughing and smiling — but Gary doesn’t feel like talking to a single one. He recognises a few faces from charity balls and record label meetings (all important people with enough money to take over Gary’s entire career), but how the fuck is he meant to talk to them? He’s not cool and wanted or popular anymore, he’s just Gary Barlow: the guy who once had it all and then lost it all over again.

If this is some sort of test, then he’s about to fail miserably.

Mark recognises the worried frown on Gary’s face, the thin lips that are pinched together. If there are different sides to Mr. Barlow’s songwriter persona, then this is the one that always needs saving.

Mark touches Gary’s hand. It’s just a quick brush of the tips of his fingers, nothing more. ‘Do you recognise anyone?’

A waiter comes round with a serving tray filled with a dozen glasses of red and white wine, and Gary takes one before the waiter can so much offer them anything. He surveys the room while he clutches his glass of red wine. ‘There’s a few I know. Question is whether they know _me_. . .’

Mark flashes a grateful smile at the waiter, but declines the offer of red or white wine. He wants to stay sober. _Has_ to. He scans the room for non-alcoholic drinks, but sees only a waitress with a tray full of glasses of water. He doesn’t want to bother her, so he tries to quench his thirst with idle gossip. ‘Who’d you know?’

Gary takes a big sip of red wine to stifle his nerves, then nods at a casually dressed man with a fake tan and a very big mouth. Based on his body language, he’s trying to chat up the woman he’s talking to. She doesn’t seem to mind much. ‘See that guy over there? Tried to sign me back in the day, he did.’

‘Why didn’t he?’

‘BMG just got there first. I would probably have signed with anyone at that point. But that guy, he spent the first ten years of me career lying he’d discovered me in a pub in Cheshire, saying that I owe him my career. He hasn’t mentioned me since me songs stopped charting.’

‘All right. Maybe not talk to him, then.’ Mark looks around the room once more. He sees incomparably beautiful young women dressed in stylish dresses; intimidating old men in expensive suits; young lads who look like the stars of tomorrow; and here and there, one or two unconventionally attractive people whom Mark isn’t sure entirely belong here. Maybe they’re producers.

But Mark doesn’t judge, so he keeps looking, and eventually his eyes land on someone who doesn’t look _quite_ so intimidating. He’s tall, this guy is, and with his dark, pushed-back hair and perfectly tailored suit he looks like a right pop star. He just _oozes_ confidence, which is probably why he’s surrounded by four extremely attractive young men and women. But he doesn’t look particularly rich or powerful or judgmental, and Mark’s drawn to him immediately. ‘What about him? Grey suit, dark hair?’

‘Dunno. Could be an artist.’ Gary doesn’t sound impressed.

‘He looks nice, though,’ Mark adds. It’s no more than a subtle push to get Gary to go over and talk to him, but it still makes Gary feel a jealous pang in his chest.

Gary looks at Mark, then at the stranger in the grey suit. He’s tall, dark, skinny, and handsome; in other words, everything Gary thinks _he_ isn’t.

Large tattoos stain the stranger’s skin. They cover the back of his hands in big blotches of ugly black ink. For some reason Gary’s mind paints him an image of those inked hands grabbing Mark’s naked sides, and what started out as ‘just’ a jealous pang turns into a lot more than that. He’s suddenly reminded of what Mark is – a rent boy; a prostitute – and Gary wishes he could erase the fact from his mind. Will Mark still look at other men while he’s with him? Will he still be trying to get the phone numbers of other men whose money he wants to steal?

Gary doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything, because he’s never asked. For one night he can pretend that he owns Mark’s body as long as he has Mark’s consent — but does he really?

The question is left unanswered. The stranger in the grey suit looks right at them, and Gary’s body gives such a jerk that he doesn’t see the next chain of events coming.

It happens before Gary knows it. A large hand slaps his back, and he spills wine all over the front of his jacket. Next, he’s blinded by the flash of a camera. Then another.

Gary has to rub the flashes out his eyes before he can see who’s standing right in front of him: the owner of the hand that slapped him (a casually dressed guy with short hair), talking amicably about Gary’s back catalogue with a camera phone in his right hand. His face is beet red. He’s probably just a drunk fan.

‘I cannot _believe_ it!’ the man says, a little too loudly. Some people look over, including the handsome stranger with the tattoos. ‘Gary Barlow, right ‘ere! Blimey, mate, my girlfriend’s never gonna believe me! Can _you_ believe it?’ he says to a random bystander, who turns red at the sudden attention. ‘Gary Barlow! I mean, flippin’ heck, I love your _songs_ , mate. You’re, like, the best songwriter since Paul _McCartney._ Amazing stuff, I’m tellin’ you,’ he adds, and for a moment Gary forgets about his nerves and his career. He straightens with pride. He glances at Mark, who’s been watching the amical display with glee. It’s good to see Gary being praised for once.

The man keeps talking. He’s clearly very drunk indeed. ‘You’re just something else, mate. I mean, your songwritin’ skills, mate, they’re just out of this _world_. I mean, _Want You Back_ and — what’s the other one, like, your – your recent hit?’ Here, the man looks at some of the people at the cocktail tables around them. He appears to be swooning on his feet slightly, and a lot of guests find it funny. Mark doesn’t know what to think of him. ‘Come on, what’s Mr. Barlow’s most recent hit? Help me out ‘ere, folks.’

The mood changes. The gathered people shake their heads at the drunk fan, amusement set on their faces. They can’t name any songs either, and the drunk fan plays it out like a game; makes his small audience laugh with his embarrassing drunk behaviour. They name Gary’s songs one after another – _A Million Love Songs_ , _Forever Love_ , _Pray_ , and so on – and it’s meant to be a celebration because aren’t they great songs and didn’t they do well on the radio?

But Gary knows better. He knows what’s coming, but a familiar prickle of fear nails him to the floor and turns him into stone.

He lets it all come.

The drunkard keeps going. He swoons, pathetically, on the spot. ‘Come on, guys, name a recent song, just one!’ No response. His small audience of bemused men and women just laugh, don’t know what he’s playing at. Mark doesn’t know what the stranger means either.

Then the drunkard makes a demonstrative sound of enlightenment and turns to the man of the hour. ‘Oh, that’s it — you’ve not _had_ a recent hit! In fact, mate, I’m not sure why you’re even here _at all!_ ’

The man spits these last words out like a slurred curse, and all the colour is drained from Mark’s skin. Too shocked to speak, he looks at Gary, who’s staring at the floor, red-faced.

So _that’s_ what Gary was so afraid of. He knew this would happen. It’s why he didn’t want to come.

The crowd all laugh at Gary, mock him. They mock him because it’s easy and because they’re terrified _they’ll_ one day come to a party and no-one will know their songs either.

Mark turns to Gary. Worry set in his terrified blue eyes. He no longer sounds so impressed with the party. ‘Let’s go, Gary.’ He looks at the drunk stranger, who’s laughing and pointing and swooning and throws up on someone’s dress a second later. He stumbles to the floor, and the crowd is too busy helping him back up to see what Mark does next. He takes Gary’s hand, and Gary lets him have it.

‘Please, Gary,’ Mark reiterates, his voice as fragile as glass, ‘let’s go.’

They do. Gary allows Mark to take him deeper into the crowded ballroom, squeezing his hand and never letting go. People stare at them as they pass, and Mark’s hand is the only thing that stops Gary from wanting to disappear forevermore.

He knew this would happen. It’s what _always_ happens. People love a failure, and he’s it. You can’t go from having number 1 hits to not having any hits at all without someone noticing.

He’s past it.

They find a quiet spot at the back of the ballroom, where the windows overlook the verdant maze that caught Mark’s eye on the way here. Mark spots a waitress in front of them and offers Gary something to drink, but Gary declines.

‘Best not, mate.’ He tries to sound casual, but Mark can hear the tremble in his voice.

Mark smiles, touches his hand. Gary doesn’t tell him to stop. ‘What happened back there, Gary?’

Mark has gone back to calling him by his first name. The first time that happened, they were fucking and kissing and coming and everything was wonderful and so much better than the shit fest they’ve ended up in now. Now, hearing Mark utter his first name just makes him sad.

Gary leans back against a window sill. He crosses his arms and doesn’t look Mark in the eye. ‘You said you liked writing songs, didn’t you? You ever wonder what would happen if you became famous? Well, this is it, mate. You become famous and then people move on, that’s what fucking happens, mate.’

‘It’s just _one_ guy.’

‘That’s all it takes, Mark. Just one guy.’

Mark’s not so sure about that, but he doesn’t argue. He just squeezes Gary’s hand when he thinks no-one’s watching, and they sit, side by side on the window sill, until the clouds pass and the rain clears.  

They don’t talk. They just watch the world of manufactured pop pass them by, one person at a time. Sometimes an acquaintance or journalist walks past, and Gary has to avert his gaze and turn to the window. From here, he can see the green maze with its complicated twists and turns that perfectly represent how he’s feeling inside: aimless and confused. He almost wants to get lost in it till his heart stops hammering in his chest and he no longer feels so alone.  

Mark’s still holding Gary’s hand, and Gary doesn’t let go. Mark looks at him occasionally to see if he’s ready to talk, but the silence remains. Only an absence of music would have made the situation awkward, but thankfully the music in the background is blissfully aware of people’s feelings. It’s a song Gary’s never heard, sung by a man and a woman. Then glittery 80s synths enter the equation and a breeze from the open windows run down Gary’s naked neck, and it’s as if he wakes from a bad dream. He realises where he is again, painfully so.

‘I’m sorry you had to hear that,’ Gary says softly, and he looks at Mark. The eyes that look back at him are achingly understanding. ‘You must think I’m a right mess.’

‘I don’t. Promise,’ Mark says, and there’s that sad smile again; the same one he shared after Gary had told him his life’s story. It almost makes Gary forget about the pain he’s in.

Then Mark scoffs and shakes his head. He looks like he’s about to say something nasty about the drunk man they met, but then he swallows it down his throat. He’s still a gentleman. ‘That guy wasn’t very nice, was he?’

Gary chuckles at the polite understatement. ‘No. No, he wasn’t.’

‘Does that sort of thing happen often?’

Gary sighs. ‘Yeah.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s the British music industry for you, mate. They’ll build you up all right, but the moment you become too big they’ll just tear you back down again. They’ve done it for years. Anyway, it’s worse now that there’s social media and stuff. One in three tweets I get is just people slagging me off, and those are the most interesting messages I get!’ He shakes his head a little distractedly, then looks at Mark, who’s still holding his hand in the middle of it all. ‘I bet this wasn’t what you had in mind.’

Mark gives a knowing smile but avoids the subject. He lowers his voice when a waitress walks past. ‘Giving you head wasn’t _so_ bad, you know.’

The comment is so blatantly suggestive that it almost makes Gary forget what they agreed. It nearly makes him kiss and suck the mouth that once looked so swollen and red; kiss it until he feels better and the party is no more than a distant memory — but then Gary remembers himself and awkwardly stares at his knees. He lets go of Mark’s hand, and Mark realises that the night is still young and they should probably do what they came here for. These guests can’t _all_ hate Gary.

Mark hops off the window sill. ‘Ready to talk to some more people?’

Gary groans. He knows mingling is exactly what he ought to be doing, but the thought still fills him with dread. ‘Only if they’re sober. And I’m leaving if they can’t even get the name of me biggest single right.’

‘ _Want You Back_ , wasn’t it?’ Mark jokes, and it’s not until Gary slaps him, amicably, on his arm that he allows himself to laugh out loud at his own little joke. Mark’s laughter fills the room, and Gary’s glad that it does.

‘Don’t _you_ start too, Mark. I’ll have you know that _Back For Good_ was number one in 47 countries!’

‘Only 47?’ Mark tuts in test. ‘You weren’t really trying, were you?’

Mark’s comment makes Gary grin for the first time that evening. ‘I might have to do something about it if you keep on making fun of me career like that, Mark.’

‘Oh, I’m counting on it, Mr. Barlow.’

The people the boys talk to next are less judgmental than the drunk bloke with the short hair. One man with an excellent moustache seems particularly interested in remixing one of Gary’s most recent album tracks, and a young lady they talk to later doesn’t really know any of Gary’s songs but makes for a great conversational partner.

Within a few hours, Mark already knows more about the music industry than he did before coming here. He’s seen the negativity and the petty bitterness that makes Mr. Barlow pale and withdrawn, but there’s good stuff too. The young talent with their debut singles, for example, but also the veteran producer who gives Gary his business card. With each positive interaction, Gary looks a lot more like the man Mark was drawn to in the first place. There’s progress here.  

For most of the time, Mark just listens and nods when he thinks he has to do. Gary and another singer-songwriter in his forties talk about pianos and synths and other things Mark knows fuck all about, but he’s more than happy to watch Gary talk about something he’s passionate about.  Sometimes, he even touches the small of Gary’s back when he says something particularly impressive. He likes making him blush.

Gary’s thankful to have Mark near him like that, and he’s already privately thinking of ways to make it up to him later. Maybe they could go back home early. Maybe they could find a private corridor and kiss, if Mark’s willing to break their own rules too. After all, the night’s not over yet.

Alas, it’s too late. The night takes a different turn. Mark’s approached by a brand new stranger, and everything changes.  

Mark recognises him immediately. It’s the guy in the grey suit, the one he thought looked so nice! He has tattoos dotted all across the back of hand, and his dark hair is pushed back. He’s handsome, and Gary hates himself for thinking it.

The stranger holds out his hand, and Mark shakes it, a little flustered because it’s the first time anyone who isn’t Gary has paid any attention to him.

‘I’m M-Mark,’ Mark stammers, nervous but polite. ‘Mark Owen.’

‘Nice to meet you, Mark. I’m Adam, from Circle Entertainment,’ says the stranger, and he stares at Mark so hard and intensely that Mark turns red at the sudden attention. Is this guy flirting with him? ‘Maybe you’ve heard of us? I’m something of a talent scout there. You caught my eye immediately.’

‘ _Wow_ ,’ Mark blurts out. (A _talent scout_? This could turn out to be a really good evening yet!) He looks at Gary, who’s watching the display with an indecipherable look on his face. ‘T-that’s a good thing, right?’

‘Dunno,’ Gary says. Something about Adam makes the hairs on his neck stand on end. ‘You tell me, Adam.’

At last, Adam’s eyes flick to Mark’s companion. It’s like he didn’t even realise Gary was there. ‘You’re with _him_ , Mark?’

Mark doesn’t hear the disdain in Adam’s voice. He just nods. ‘Yeah. He’s Gary. Gary Barlow? He’s written a lot of really popular songs.’ He beckons at Gary to come closer, but Gary stays rooted to the spot. He feels the same strange premonition in his belly that he felt when the drunk stranger approached him. Something about this is off. It feels like danger.  

‘Oh, I know _him_. Shame, really,’ Adam says, and he no longer looks so nice when he gives Mark such a filthy once-over that it makes Mark start. He looks at Gary a little uncertainly, who’s suddenly clutching his glass of wine very tightly. Where is this conversation heading? Why won’t Gary come closer? Why did Adam look at him like that?

But Adam just goes on. He ignores the nervous step that Mark makes, moving away from him. Mark’s beginning to feel like something’s off too.

‘You’re new in this industry, aren’t you, Mark? Just got started? I bet I could make you famous in a month. A week, if I wanted to. You’ve sure got the looks for it.’ Again, another once-over. It doesn’t feel innocent anymore. Mark looks at Gary again, whose face has gone beet red. He’s holding his glass of wine so tight that his knuckles have turned white.

This is wrong. This is very wrong indeed.

Adam keeps going. He doesn’t care how the words hit his brand new victim. ‘All you have to do, Mark, is be a really, really good boy, and the world is ours. Do you understand what that means, Mark? Just one . . . favour,’ (here, Adam pronounces the word like he’s talking about a lot more than just a favour) ‘and I can get you a record deal. Just like that.’

Mark turns bright red. What is this guy suggesting? ‘I – I don’t understand,’ he stammers, but the meaning of Adam’s words have hit him like a wave. He understands perfectly.

This guy is a lot more than a talent scout.

Mark looks at Gary again, helpless, and this time Gary decides he’s had more than enough. He steps in and pushes Adam away with gentle but firm hands. ‘I don’t think Mark wants to be a part of your world, mate.’

Adam pushes up his chest to make himself more imposing. He looks a lot less handsome up close. ‘Really? Then why doesn’t he say anything?’

‘Maybe cos he doesn’t fucking like you, _Adam_. Anyway, he’s already with me, Mark is,’ Gary lies. The words roll out of his mouth like he’s rehearsed them. ‘ _I’m_ signing him, so you can fuck off with those dirty favours of yours.’

The stranger takes the both of them with his intense dark eyes, then sighs. He’s fallen for the lie. He’s giving in. ‘Fine. But don’t think _you’re_ so innocent, Barlow. I know what you’ve done. We _all_ do.’

With that, Adam gives Mark one more dirty look, turns on his heel and walks away empty-handed. By the time he’s out of sight, Mark has started trembling from head to toe.

‘You okay, Mark?’

Mark shakes his head. He’d be lying if he said he was. ‘That guy — he was treating me like — like I’m some —’ But the words catch in his mouth. Mark can’t say them, and how can he? How can he complain about being intimidated by someone like that when he’s here as a _rent boy_? How can he complain about anything at all?

But Gary doesn’t see it that way. He places his hands on Mark’s sides, quite forgetting about the no touching rule, and kisses Mark’s forehead (another rule broken). It makes Mark breathe a sigh of relief, happy to be held by two hands he knows he can trust.

‘I know,’ Gary says, sighing. ‘I could have punched him. If _I_ ever make you feel uncomfortable you’ve gotta tell me, okay? No excuses.’

Mark looks up at Gary. How can Gary even think that? He’s never made him feel uncomfortable at all. ‘You – you don’t make me feel like that, Gary. Y-you make me feel like – like —’

Overwhelmed by how gentle Gary’s eyes are compared to the Adam’s, the words almost stumble out of Mark’s mouth, falling freely — but he doesn’t know how to finish them. He never does.

But Gary wants to hear him finish his sentence. He wants to know if Mark feels that way too. ‘Make you feel _how_ , Mark?’

Mark colours as he feels Gary’s grip on his hips tighten. Gary’s thumb caresses the spot where Mark’s most sensitive, and the flashing lights become blurred. The music fades. He thinks about telling Gary everything: about how Gary makes him feel like he’s finally worth something and that his kisses make him forget how to breathe and that Gary is the one thing on his mind even when they’re in the same room together and did I mention that I really love your late-night texts? But the party lights are too bright, and Mark ends up saying the only thing he can:

‘Let’s just forget about it,’ he says, trying to sound sexy and in control, but he doesn’t feel in control at all. He tries again. ‘Let me give you what you paid for, Mr. Barlow. Tonight.’

This comment comes as a surprise. ‘Are – are you sure? I don’t want you to do it just cos you think you have to, Mark.’

‘I’m sure if you are. So, yes.’

Gary doesn’t look like he’s entirely dreading the idea. They’ve broken _two_ rules so far (kissing and touching), so would it really be that bad if they broke a third? Maybe. Maybe not.

‘We _are_ still in public, though,’ Gary points out, and it sounds more like a fact than a refusal. Maybe he does want this after all.

Mark knows it too, but he doesn’t care. Being hit on by Adam has filled him with a strange sense of determination; a need to be fucked so hard that it feels like love and Mark can pretend that he’s a sweet little angel capable of nothing but that; _love_. What’s the worst thing that could happen? Everyone’s too drunk to give a shit anyway.

‘It’s not in public if no-one’s watching, Mr. Barlow,’ Mark points out in his best nervous rent boy voice, and Gary never argues, he just nods. Together, they wordlessly leave the ballroom, hand in hand, ready to prove the universe that she’s got them all wrong.

♬

It’s hard to get away. This being a very respectable mansion, with priceless vases and artworks in every single corridor, each room that doesn’t directly lead back to the party ballroom is either curtained off or blocked by a large security guard. The only places the guests can go are the ballroom, the restrooms, or the parking lot; all unappealing spots if you want to have a good shag.

Gary’s beginning to believe they’ll never leave the mansion at all when unexpected help appears in the shape of a tipsy woman. She stumbles out of the ballroom, dizzy and green in the face, and she dramatically swoons on the spot before being sick in a very expensive plant pot. One of the security guards immediately leaves his post to come to her rescue, and it’s the two-second window the lovers need. Mark and Gary share a brief glance, grin at each other, and they wordlessly escape into the corridor the guard was blocking. They’re running, and for once in his life Gary doesn’t care.

It’s thrilling. It’s exhilarating. Their hearts nearly burst out of their chests. Gary feels like he’s in his twenties again, when everything was new and exciting and the dark corners of concert venues held untold secrets he could unlock with just a touch of his fingertips. He looks at Mark, and Gary can tell he’s feeling the exact same thing. This is fucking _brilliant_.

They keep going. It’s not hard to see why guests are not permitted here: with its endless marble floors, arched windows and dazzling chandeliers, the corridor is even more stunning than the ballroom they were in. Its walls are a flawless white, and on the floor a gold yellow and black zigzagging pattern beckons the men to keep moving forward. They do.

The corridor keeps getting more and more beautiful. Tall windows are alternated with bright flashes of opaque. Historic landscapes are framed by regal gold. A portrait passes them by. They’re all paintings that are as priceless as the house they’re in, but Mark and Gary walk so fast that they never see the opaque and watercolour faces staring back at them. They just keep going, spurred on by the dark space in front of them and inebriated with what they think is love. At this pace, even the demons in their hearts can’t keep up with them.

Mark and Gary don’t know how long they’ve been moving, just that they’re bloody knackered. Eventually, the air runs out of their lungs and their legs go heavy with the strain of it all and they have no choice but to stop at a T-junction, where the corridor splits into two hallways. There are fewer windows and no chandeliers. It’s dark here. Not pitch black (there’s still light from the windows pouring through), but dark enough. There’s no furniture, just walls and windows and art that no-one’s ever thought to look at.

Drawn in by the shadows, the men slowly move towards the dark. There isn’t a single person in sight. They’re alone at last; alone enough to finish what Mark’s mouth started earlier that evening.

Gary sees Mark thinking it. He’s still out of breath, Mark less so, but it doesn’t stop him from grabbing Mark’s sides in the middle of the dark hallway. Mark likes it; he licks his lips when he looks down at Gary’s hands grasping his shirt, and when he looks up at Gary again there’s no more fear there, just need.

But Gary’s still a gentleman. ‘You _are_ sure about this, aren’t you, Mark?’ he asks Mark, just to be certain. It’s not the best place, he knows that (there’s a draft from an open window and the paintings are slightly disturbing if he bothers to look at them), but it’s as good a place as any. They’ll be quick. They won’t be seen. But he needs to be sure. ‘We can go somewhere else too if you want to.’

Mark feels the pressure on his sides increase, and he knows Gary doesn’t mean it. He _wants_ this, probably gets off on it. He can just picture it, a young Mr. Barlow, fucking in a dark corridor away from flashing lights and cameras, an obedient fan on all fours in front of him. Did Gary ever get nervous? Did he ever get caught? God, he must have. He must have gotten caught and _loved_ it.

Mark doesn’t speak. He just stands on tiptoe, smiles, and lets his eyes flutter closed when Gary fills the gap for him.

They don’t hold back this time. Mark hears Gary moan against his mouth. His own hands curve round the shape of Gary’s back, fondling the soft textures there; wanting to take Gary’s clothes off and strip him down until they’re both as naked as the statues in the hallway. For a moment Mark wonders if the two of them would look as beautiful as a piece of art, and he reckons they must do. Lovers always do.

Gary’s needier this time. Less gentle. Mark feels himself being pressed against the wall behind him, and he can almost feel Gary’s cash burn a hole in his pocket. He ignores it. I’m not just doing this for the money, Mark thinks. I’m doing it for _him_. It’s all for him.

The wall is hard and cold compared to Gary’s hot body in front of him. Above their heads, a dark painting of a woman in red looms over them; she judges and ridicules the men for being made of flesh and blood instead of paint and canvas, but the only red that Gary can see is Mark’s scarf as he pulls it tighter round Mark’s neck. Mark doesn’t mind; he loudly gasps at the building pressure. He likes it like this. He wants more of it.

Mark feels his scarf press against his throat as it stops him from breathing. It’s dizzying, but not as dizzying as the soft kisses he feels on his cheek, his temple. He thinks he can hear Mr. Barlow whisper something in his hear then, but Mark doesn’t process it, he’s too far gone for that; the world just spins all around them, speeding up and never stopping and making everything else irrelevant.

They don’t stop. The dark has swallowed them whole.

Gary moves to kiss the part of Mark’s neck where he’s red and desperate. It’s good. Too good; Gary’s mouth sucks him there and leaves a large, guilty hickey, and it’s so bloody perfect that Mark jerks his hips and lets out such a dirty moan that a third party hears it loud and clear.

The blinding light comes first. Then there’s the warning.

‘WHO’S THERE!’ A male shadow carrying a bright flashlight cries it at them from a distance, and Mark recognises him immediately. His stomach drops. It’s the security guard from before, the one they ran past!

Every hint of excitement leaves Mark’s body. He pushes Gary away from him. They have to act, now!

But Gary’s petrified. This is the most dangerous situation he’s been in for years.

Mark mouth moves into a series of words as he jabs a finger at the empty hallway in front of them, but Gary doesn’t hear them. He’s too scared. If the security guard recognises him—

‘ _Gary_!’

‘ _Gary, c’mon_!’

It’s Mark’s hand in his that makes Gary’s soul return to his body. Finally, he understands.

They _run_ , fast. They clutch each other’s hands tight and escape into the corridor they came from, their footsteps echoing on marble floors as threats pierce the air.

‘STOP RIGHT THERE!’

‘I’M CALLING THE POLICE!’

‘THIS IS AGAINST THE LAW!’

The men are fast, but the security guard is faster. He’s catching up with them. Stinging pain soars through Gary’s sides, and he’s not sure if it’s more painful than the terrifying pictures his mind conjures up, of tabloid headlines covering his sinful dalliance with Mark.

If they get caught, he’s done. His career will be over before his record label gets the chance to fuck it up. Because he’s wholesome, Gary is. He’s _safe_. He’s the sort of music that people buy for their mums on mother’s day. He’s the song that plays in an elevator. But most of all, Gary Barlow doesn’t have sex or meet up with strangers in the dark. He’s just dull and hitless and only a misstep away from being without a record label, and this is it; this is that misstep. One wrong turn, and he’s over.

The guard’s footsteps are getting louder. He’s determined to catch these two in the act, but Mark’s feet are a split second faster. His short legs are nimbler and he’s suddenly alert, seeing everything and anything.

Again, divine intervention saves them. The guard’s flashlight casts a long shadow on the floor and unveils a brand new hallway on their right; an escape route, a secret passageway. Mark doesn’t waste a second and pulls Gary right into it.

The security guard’s stumped. He stops in the place where the two strangers disappeared. Then he sees the secret passageway and shines his light into it; smiles because he knows it’s a dead end. They can’t have gotten far. He’ll catch them all right.

He walks slowly. He shines his flashlight into every corner and crevice he knows, illuminating grand artworks and bronze statues. ‘It’s no use hiding, lads,’ he says, more to himself than to the shadows. He has no idea that he already walked past the boys two seconds go. ‘You might as well come out now and get this over with. I’m sure _something_ can be arranged so you won’t be charged for trespassing.’

But the security guard’s words are empty threats, for he hasn’t considered the small supplies cupboard next to a mink vase: a cupboard so stuffy and dusty that it nearly made Gary’s eyes water when Mark pulled him into it and closed the door behind them.

The guard walks past the cupboard for a second time, and Mark can feel Gary’s nervous exhale against his cheek. The cupboard is tiny; so tiny that the outside world suddenly feels impossibly large. The men are pressed close together, and they can feel and hear every move the other makes in deliciously intimate detail.

Mark’s hand accidentally brushes against Mr. Barlow’s thigh in the dark, and instead of saying sorry he keeps his hand there. He touches Gary’s trousers, feels the cotton against his fingertips. Everything is accentuated in the dark; from the textures he feels underneath his palm to the warm sigh that escapes Gary’s mouth next. He doesn’t feel the cupboard wall press against his arse or smell the scent of age-old dust, he just feels Mr. Barlow’s crotch as it touches his own, desperately out of reach and covered-up.

Mark’s next words are no more than a whisper. He regrets them instantly. ‘Kiss me, Mr. Barlow,’ he says, and it’s like the cupboard is lit up by fireworks.

They move. It happens in symphony. They simultaneously tilt their heads, and their eyes flutter closed. The security guard is still looking for them outside the tiny cupboard walls, and it just makes them more careless, not quieter.

They forget the reality of the threat. Hands wander. Mark pulls Gary closer as though being in a cupboard is not yet close enough. He feels every inch of Gary’s chest heave and breathe against his own.

Mark wants more. He wants Gary naked. He wants them to fuck right here, in this cupboard, where everything’s so dark and stuffy and dank that Mr. Barlow is his oxygen and his anchor; anchoring him right to the floor until he’s not even a rent boy or a hotel employee anymore but a lover, a boyfriend. Gary could fuck him so hard that the walls of the cupboard fall apart all around them, and he wouldn’t even care. He just wouldn’t.

Mark tries to take the next step. He tries to unbutton Gary’s black jacket, and he bumps his elbow against the cupboard wall so hard that he cries out. It catches Gary unawares, and the dust catches in his nose and he sneezes, hard.

‘ _A-CHOO_!’

The spell lifts immediately. The party’s over. The security guard stops in his tracks. He’s heard everything.

Petrified, the men stop what they’re doing. They’d look at each other if they could, but they can only hold their breaths and listen; listen for footsteps and voices and anything else that might tell them they’re about to get caught.

They’re about to get caught.

The guard’s footsteps approach. They sound heavy on the marble floor. He’s close. Too close. The cupboard isn’t fun anymore. It’s no longer an exciting place to be when Gary realises with a pang what he’s doing — what _they’re_ doing.

A bucket on the floor painfully digs into his right ankle. The dark becomes suffocating. The single glass of red wine he had is beginning to slow down his thoughts. He tries to find Mark’s hand in the dark, but can’t. The excitement fades. He tries to remember previous moments like this that had happy endings, previous fucks and fuck-ups, but his mind draws a blank. Suddenly, he’s cold and terrified.

Mark notices. He finds Gary’s trembling body against his own and wraps his arms around it like he’s already done it a million and more times. Gary mirrors him, dead afraid, and they wait, hardly daring to breathe.

The guard keeps looking.

‘This is the worst thing I’ve ever done,’ Gary whispers suddenly.

Mark has to keep in his laugh. He remembers a story Gary once told him. ‘Worse than having sex in your dressing room?’

Silence. Mark can’t see Gary raise his eyebrows. ‘Less comfortable. Christ, I wish we’d stayed at home.’

They wait for five minutes or more. Every now and then, they can see the light from the security guard’s torch pour in through the cracks in the wall. The guard’s still keen to find them both. By now, Gary knows the small of Mark’s back by heart; how soft it is, and how beautifully Mark’s shirt follows his curve. The texture is wet, and Gary imagines Mark must be sweating underneath it all. His mind is too tired to take the image further.

Eventually, the footsteps recede. The security guard has given up, or maybe it’s just a sound from the party that’s distracted him. Whatever the cause, he just sighs, clicks off his flashlight, and leaves, hoping he’ll catch trespassers on his shift _one_ day.

The men wait. The cupboard is still deliciously uncomfortable. A minute passes, then another. Another minute goes by. They don’t hear a sound; no footsteps, no threats, nothing at all, and eventually Gary lets out such a big sigh of relief that it ruffles Mark’s hair. Mark unconsciously moves his arm so that he can run his hand through his fringe, and he remembers too late that they’re still in the cupboard. He painfully bumps his elbow against the cupboard wall again, and it’s so bloody predictable that they both laugh.

It lifts the air immediately. Mark’s laugh sounds even better than Gary remembers it, and he wishes he could find Mark’s dimples in the dark and kiss him there, again and again. There are a lot of places on Mark’s body that he hasn’t kissed yet. Gary wants to find them all, one sensitive spot at a time — but preferably not in here.

‘Let’s get out of here, Mark,’ Gary says, equally nervous and aroused, and they do; but not before Mark gives Gary one last kiss on the mouth and pulls his body close. Mark feels Gary’s hard cock against his own as he does, and he knows Mr. Barlow found that little dalliance a lot more exciting than he’s letting on.

Mark doesn’t mention it. The night isn’t over yet. He’ll get his fix eventually. They both will.

They leave the cupboard. They decide not to do any touching, for now; they just walk through the empty mansion halls hand in hand, careful not to give in to their needs but still giving each other the occasional knowing _look_. Mark knows the chase turned Mr. Barlow on, and similarly Gary knows how hot and red Mark became when he tightened his scarf and _squeezed_. They both want more; they both want to be elevated to a world where they’re both free of the earthly chains that hold them — they just need to find the right place.

It’s as if the mansion has become bigger and smaller at the same time. They pass kitchens and locked bathrooms and even inside swimming pools (‘Even _I_ don’t have one of those,’ Gary pouts childishly), but nothing’s good enough. Everything’s too out in the open, and everything that isn’t might as well be a room in Gary’s own house. They want the fear of getting caught with their pants down in the sanctity of a sacred bedroom but still hold each other tight. In other words, they don’t want to get caught — but it’d be fucking hot if they did.

It’s getting late. They’ve walked several staircases; they’re on the first floor now, getting more and more lost.

Gary’s beginning to think they’ll never find a proper hideaway when the mansion presents them with yet another gift: a large bedroom with its door ajar, as frozen in time as a bedroom in a history museum. Like the rest of the mansion, it’s guarded by a long strip of velvet rope as though Queen Elizabeth herself has slept in it. There are no security guards.

Gary stops to peer through the crack. The bedroom looks empty enough. An open window lets in the sounds from the party downstairs, and there are no hidden doors or ensuites. The only way out is the same way in. They’re close to the ballroom, but not close enough to be overheard if they’re really very quiet. It’s the perfect place.

Gary looks at Mark for only the millionth time since they left the ballroom, and a nervous chill runs down his spine. He suddenly feels giddy with impatient excitement, like he’s a kid on Boxing Day and Mark’s the present he’s about to get his hands on and unwrap.

He tries to mute his excitement in case Mark doesn’t like the look of it. They could still head back to the parking lot if that’s more Mark’s thing. ‘What do you think?’

Mark pushes the door open a little to look inside. He attempts a cool shrug like he sneaks through other people’s mansions on a daily basis, but on the inside his feelings mirror Gary’s. He’s excited too. He feels like he’s living in one of the stories Gary told him on the first night they met, of dressing room blowjobs and quick pre-concert shags. How exciting must that have been?

‘You’re the boss, Mr. Barlow.’ Then he moderates his tone. ‘Maybe not use the bed, though.’

Gary frowns. The bed, a four-poster one that’s even bigger than his own, looks rather like a museum piece, canopy and all. It doesn’t look terribly comfortable, but then again, it _is_ a bed. You can’t really go wrong with that. ‘Why not?’

‘Would you like it if a stranger had sex in _your_ bed, Mr. Barlow?

‘To be fair, I _do_ have four of them, Mark.’

Mark shakes his head and rolls his eyes, but he can’t stop smiling for long. _I love this man_ , he thinks privately, and it comes out so naturally that he doesn’t even notice. He loves this man. He loves how Gary makes him feel; loves all the songs Gary writes and wants them all etched into his skin, one lyric at a time.

Mark loves Gary, and Gary loves him right back.

‘Just get in before I change my mind, Mr. Barlow. C’mon.’

They step over the red velvet rope, and in a way it’s just like their first meeting, when Mark spotted Gary from across a crowd of insignificant heads in a bar and took the dangerous next step. From the moment their eyes met, they knew exactly where their night would end.

It’s no different now. Gary enters the bedroom first, and Mark only has two seconds to close the door behind him and clumsily lock the door till Gary presses him against the wall and kisses him, hard.

It’s so dominant that it takes Mark’s breath away. Is this really the same guy who begged him to fuck him? Is this really the same guy who Mark thought looked so very lost the first time they met? Is this really Gary _Barlow_ , the man without a single recent hit to his name? And the answer is yes — yes, of course it is. He’s had this side to him all along, dormant and waiting. There will be no more foreplay now, no chats in between — just the two of them against this wall, fucking till they might as well call it love.

They kiss and touch. Hands wander. Mark doesn’t hold back on the dirty talk this time. He has it down to a tee now, and he doesn’t even realise it’s not the money’s doing. This is all him; Mark Owen, Gary Barlow’s lover. ‘I just knew that being in that cupboard made you hard, Mr. Barlow. You _love_ this, don’t ya? I bet you just wanna bend me over and fuck me right here . . .’

‘ _Christ_ , yes.’

Mark’s right, Gary loves this. Gary loves the thrill he feels when he pushes his leg in between Mark’s; he loves the dimples in Mark’s cheeks that he kisses next; he loves hearing the sounds from the party, distant but close as the guests sing back the words of a song he hardly knows. Anyone could unlock the door and come in, but no-one would ever be able to hear them over the melody of the party, thumping and vibrating as Mark moans and writhes against Gary’s frame and _begs_ him to undress him.

Gary does as he’s told. Mark mirrors him, nervous. In the heat of the fire they nearly forget about the intimacy of it all, but then a finger brushes a naked collarbone or a keen eye spots an unseen birthmark, and they remember: they’ve never undressed each other before. Last time, Mark stripped until he was naked and vulnerable; this time, it’s Gary who’s doing the stripping, loosening Mark’s buttons one by one until there’s no more left to take. His hands are gentle and soft, and it’s the most intimate thing they’ve ever done.

They’re lovers now. Had Mark demonstratively taken his clothes off in the half-dark of this bedroom he might still be able to pretend he’s a rent boy, a fraud, a slag, but he’s not: they’re both equals, him and Gary, and that’s how they’ll remain till they get each other dressed again.

The music from the party keeps going. The boys’ shirts and jackets are thrown on the floor and they’re suddenly half-naked and beautiful: Mark, with his thin, straight frame and flat belly, his dolphin tattoo its only imperfection; and Gary, strong, hairy, muscular. They fit together against the wall perfectly.

Mark’s dirty talk is pushed to the background, for now. They take a quiet moment to take each other in, and they do it as lovers. They no longer look at each other like they Mark’s just fresh meat Mr. Barlow wants to get a taste of, but they do it with the upmost respect because they’ve bloody well earned it.

In this bedroom frozen in time, Mark and Gary are boyfriend and boyfriend, not a rent boy and his client. It’s as simple as that. When Mark’s eyes trail down the hard curves of Gary’s naked torso in front of him, he sees only beauty and finesse, not the stories that shaped the scars on his stomach. And when Gary touches Mark’s tattoo with the tip of his finger next, it’s with the tenderness of someone who’s already touched and kissed that spot a million times. They don’t know each other truly, but it feels like they do.

Gary doesn’t know if he’s told Mark how beautiful he is yet, but he’s going to tell him anyway. ‘You’re beautiful, Mark,’ he says. It’s not just flattery; Mark Owen is utterly beautiful.

Except — he _has_ said it before. Gary remembers it now. He purred it when he asked Mark to turn round for him on the first night they met, and he thought it over and over when he felt the need to spank Mark's arse. Mark had allowed his naked body to be embraced by a complete stranger only minutes into their meeting, and it's only now that Gary realises how weird that must have been. With the ‘beautiful’ that Gary uttered on the first evening of their affair, he actually meant that Mark looked entirely fuckable, nothing more. Mark was just something to dig his nails into. But this evening, Gary means every single syllable. Mark is the most beautiful man he's ever met, inside out.

He says it again in case Mark didn’t catch it. ‘You’re beautiful.’

Mark smiles. His eyes meet Gary’s. He has this way of looking at people like they’re the only thing in the room, and he’s doing it right now; blue eyes bright and wide, staring back at Gary like he’s his everything: ‘You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Barlow,’ he says, and he means it too. Every word.

Mark’s comment is what takes things even further. It fills Gary with confidence, and he lets out a smug, knowing laugh. He moves his lips to the soft skin of Mark’s ear as they start working their magic on each other’s trousers at the same time, loosening belts and unbuttoning buttons with steady hands. They’re less nervous this time. _Confident_.

‘What were you saying about me bending you over again, Mark?’

Mark hums appreciatively. His trousers are the first to go, and he almost thinks he can feel the Earth’s very rotations when Gary slips his hand inside his boxers and squeezes. He’s hard. Gary’s too, but Gary’s boxers aren’t down yet and Mark’s struggling to get rid of his bloody belt. (It’s trickier when someone else is touching you, you know.)

Then Gary realises what Mark’s wearing (jockstraps), and the moan he lets out next is so deliciously _needy_ that Mark turns redder than he’s ever been. For a moment, he struggles for words as Gary digs his nails into his naked arsecheeks.

‘L-like it, Mr. Barlow?’

‘Yeah,’ says Gary. Raspy. _Horny_. He privately considers flipping Mark over and just taking him _right here_ , against the wall, with his jockstrap still on (maybe his scarf too, if Gary can bother to find it on the floor), but something stops him. He wants them to be equals. It’s not the word his mind conjures up, but it’s what he wants them to be; _equal_ , and not whatever one thousand pounds is supposed to make them.

They keep going. Eventually Mark manages to loosen Gary’s belt and pull down his pants, and suddenly they’re very naked indeed, with only their socks to more or less cover their dignity. (Gary’s socks are Star Wars ones. Bless.) And as much as Gary loves seeing Mark in them, his pretty jockstraps quickly join the pile of clothes on the floor too. It’s better that way.

With their clothes finally out of the picture, Mark can at last continue what he started in the car. He cups and touches Gary’s balls, and for a moment all they do is kiss and moan into each other’s mouths as they explore each other all over and over again.

The moment is perfect; it’s thrilling. They jerk each other off at the same time. They move their fists up and down in perfect harmony. They feel wet streaks cover their hands and fingers. They whimper, softly, when a thumb touches them right. It’s so good that even the threat from the party has faded. Mark’s constantly reminded of giving Gary head in the car and seeing Gary writhe and throb in front of him; meanwhile, Gary’s reminded of touching Mark for the first time and watching him go hard. It’s like they’ve had a lifetime of shared nights already, and yet they don’t feel familiar at all. It’s magic.

Every now and then Gary stops what he’s doing to give Mark’s arse a hard squeeze or push in a finger _just_ so, and somehow Mark always manages to keep going, still jerking Gary off as he’s being fingered. He’s a good boy like that.

But Gary still wants more. He presses his forehead against Mark’s, takes in the scent of his shampoo. His hands are now on Mark’s arse, pressing half-moons into that soft skin with his fingernails. Mark reaches up to kiss him, but Gary moves away his mouth; teases him by kissing his ear instead. Mark likes it like that.

‘You sure you want this, Mark?’

Gary knows the answer already, but he has to ask. He has to be sure.

Mark nods, touches Gary’s cock again. His hands are trembling now. ‘Y-yeah.’ It’s hardly even a word.

It’s not good enough. Gary needs to hear Mark say it. He reiterates his question. ‘Mark. Are you _sure_ you want this?’

Mark looks up at Gary then, almost offended that Gary even needs to ask him that. Of _course_ he wants this. Was the blowjob he gave him not clear enough? Was the money they exchanged really that meaningless? Did their kisses mean nothing? Could Gary not see the love and admiration in Marl’s eyes as they stole intimate glances across the dining room two weeks ago?

Mark wants this more than anything.

He tells him. ‘Stop asking me, Mr. Barlow,’ he almost purrs, and it’s exactly what Gary needs to hear, word for word. It changes everything. It tears down the last rusty bricks that make up their walls and renders Gary back into the person he once was.

‘Why don’t you be a good lad and head over to the bed while I grab my things, Mark?’ The remark effortlessly rolls off Gary’s tongue like it’s a lyric he’s rehearsed, and it takes him by surprise. The words have the same confident tilt his voice had twenty years ago, when he used to do this on a daily basis and he still felt like he had the world at its feet. He likes it. It makes him feel in control. Maybe he won’t be so gentle after all.

Mark laughs, teases Gary on purpose. ‘What if I don’t _want_ to be good, Gary?’

The comment is meant to be fairly innocent, but it strikes such a chord in Gary that he simply smiles back at Mark before lifting his hand and spanking Mark’s arse, hard. And again.

‘Get on the fucking bed, Mr. Owen.’

It’s an order, not a request, and it leaves Mark speechless. If Gary went into this meeting wanting to be more dominant than he’s ever been, then he’s performed admirably.

(Or maybe it’s just the wine doing the talking.)

Mark does as he’s told. He doesn’t bother asking Gary any questions about his preferences this time; he knows what Gary wants. It’s what they both want.

The next few moments feel like they’ve been stretched out for an eternity. Mark gets on the bed on his knees, lies down on his stomach, pushes up his bum, and waits. It’s all he can do in that moment; wait, patiently. In his head, he’s already counting down the seconds till he thinks he’ll feel Gary’s hands on him again.

The wait last forever. Mark’s countdown has already reached zero a dozen times. It’s hard not to feel alone and vulnerable. For a single second, there’s again that irrational fear that Gary’s not at all what he seems. Then Mark hears a condom wrapper being ripped, and his breath catches in his throat. He hides his face in the matrass beneath him, expectant and terrified in equal measure.

Realisation hits Mark in waves. Gary’s about to make love to him again, and it feels like the first time all over again. It’s an odd, improper feeling to have, but then again — what point is there of loving if it doesn’t feel like the first time over and over? What point is there repeating it? No, it’s special, this, Mark thinks. It’s _real_. Even now, weeks after they’ve met, Mark feels the same nervous excitement he felt when they first fucked. He feels the same butterflies when Gary kissed him that evening. He feels loved and appreciated and _whole_ , and it’s the best feeling he’s ever had.

So when Mark finally feels the matrass dip underneath him only a second later, he feels nothing he’s ever felt before. It’s not just excitement, it’s something else; it’s infatuation, it’s desire, it’s the gasp Mark lets out when Gary _drapes_ himself on top of him and pushes his body right down.

It’s everything he wants and likes.

Gary kisses the back of Mark’s head, and Mark thinks he can feel Gary’s cock against his arse. His chest hair tickles Mark’s back. His hands — God, they’re fucking everywhere. Their bodies feel perfect together. They’re so close that they feel like one person.

‘So far so good, Mark?’

Mark’s too speechless to speak, so he can only hum appreciatively and wriggle his bum and hope Gary gets the hint.

Gary does. He slowly starts rubbing his cock up and down the curve of Mark’s arse. He’s a right tease tonight. He kisses the parts of Mark that are just in reach: Mark’s neck, his ear, his shoulder, the back of his head where his hair is messy and unruly and oh so perfect for tugging at. Mark loves it all. His own cock, untouched, wet, rubs against the matrass underneath him with every move Gary makes. It’s unbearable.

He wants more.

Mark moves his head so they can kiss at an awkward angle. ‘Fuck me, Mr. Barlow,’ he rasps after a few minutes of being kissed and teased, and it’s barely audible.

Gary’s too dazed to reply, so Mark says it again, like saying it makes it less bloody real. He spares a brief thought for the guy who hit on him, and his determination grows. He _wants_ this. It’s what he came here for. ‘Make love to me. Please.’

He doesn’t notice the change in vocabulary. Neither does Gary; he just kisses the back of Mark’s head like nothing’s changed, and takes in his sweet, flowery smell. It’s dizzying, like the rest of him.

Gary moves his mouth lower. He places soft pecks on Mark’s neck, then his shoulder, his back. He finds a birthmark that he hasn’t seen before, and touches it with a fingertip before moving on. His soft lips leave a soft trail of butterfly kisses all the way down Mark’s spine and the curve of his perfectly shaped body till he finds Mark’s arse and kisses him there, twice.

It’s such a soft and gentle gesture that Mark starts when Gary suddenly spanks him, hard. Gary does it again and again till Mark’s arse is so red that the kisses he places there next feel like velvet on Mark’s skin.

‘Good boy,’ Gary purrs a little distractedly, and he gives Mark another kiss on the back of his head to make up for the pain. It’s the softest kiss they’ve shared yet, and it’s just another thing that takes Mark’s breath away.

Mark doesn’t know how Gary does it, he really doesn’t. How can someone be so dominant and so soft at the same time? How can Gary be gentle to him at all, knowing what he is and what he’s done? It’s absolutely baffling. It almost makes Mark think – hope – the man’s in love with him, but would they really ever fall so far? After all this time, would gentle kisses on soft body parts _really_ mean love and nothing else? Could they really love each other in spite of the money and the history and the stories they’ve shared?

It’s hard to tell. Everything’s so blurred that it’s hard to tell how they feel anymore, just that it feels bloody good to be here.

Then again, maybe they were already in love with each other long before they met.

Downstairs, in the ballroom, there is no love at all. Only business matters as the party keeps going well into the night. More wine is had. The man who made fun of Gary disappears into a taxi, drunk and misunderstood. Adam the talent scout is trying his moves on yet another victim while the people all around him talk about cheap music and chart hits. Some conversations aren’t even about music at all, just noise. Life-long connections are made, but none of them are true. The only thing that matters is collecting yet another business card.

New guests arrive. Others leave. Waiters and waitresses traverse miles in the mansion halls, serving food and alcohol to anyone who needs it. The music still hasn’t stopped, and it’s so distracting that none of the guests hear Gary’s moan when he pushes his cock into Mark on the first floor.

There’s no foreplay. No lube — just spit and fingers and more spit as Gary fills Mark up inside. It’s a feeling Mark will never get used to, and yet it feels oddly familiar. Gary’s rougher this time, but his hands still feel the same: caressing Mark with those long fingers of his and keeping him perfectly in check, one stroke of his cock at a time.

It feels liberating. Thrilling. Exciting. _Wrong_ , just a little bit; is that another guest they just heard in the corridor? Have they been found? Is someone about to unlock the door and walk in on them? Will someone else step into this bed tonight and find it stained with a stranger’s sweat and sperm?

It hardly matters.

Only five or six thrusts in, and the sheer pleasure is making it hard to cope. Every inch of Mark’s body is on edge. They should’ve used lube; it hurts. Each thrust feels like electricity, and slowly Mark finds himself loving the pain he’s in, not hating it. He’ll probably still feel it in the morning. The thought turns him on.

He wants it harder. He wants to be on all fours on the bed like a slag, not pressed into the matrass as he’s fucked, but he can’t manage. He can barely move. He trembles with each move Gary makes and finds himself pushing up his arse instead, begging Gary to fuck him harder, deeper.

Gary responds by pushing his body back down again.

_Bastard_.

Mark lets it all wash over him instead. He hides his face in the pillow in front of him and writhes and whimpers as his hands clutch the sheets beneath him. They offer no comfort.

The bed starts creaking as Gary speeds up inside of him. Large, puffed-up pillows stumble to the floor. Mark never stops moaning, and even Gary’s not holding back this time; he doesn’t talk much, but he’s _loud_. So loud. Someone will probably have heard them by now, but Gary doesn’t give a shit anymore; it’s fucking hot, this is — he can already feel the early waves of pleasure roll over him as he realises what a fucking racket they’re making, and he knows Mark’s close too. He pushes inside of him harder, faster, and runs a gentle hand over Mark’s deliciously sweaty back to make up for it.

He looks beautiful like this, Mark does; all pretty and bent over on the bed, back muscles glistening in the dark. His arms, lost, move across the bed like he desperately needs something to hold on to. Gary’s not going to offer him it. They begin to see stars. They’re even brighter than the blinding disco lights in the ballroom. They’re close, so close, and they voice it over and over.

Mark jerks his body, pushes up his arse again. His teeth bite the saliva-stained pillow underneath him. His face is averted, but Gary thinks he knows what Mark looks like. Mark’s face was a bloody piece of art the last time they fucked.

‘Deeper, Gary,’ he moans, barely audible. And a second later, even more desperate, with that pretty little face of his contorted in pain and pleasure in the dark: ‘ _Please._ ’

Gary does at he’s told. He fills Mark to the hilt. Over the next few minutes, everything the men have ever known is drowned out by pleasure and warmth and _moans_ and the scandalous sound of flesh slapping against flesh:

‘Oh my _God_ — yes, Gary — right _there_ , _yes . . ._ fuck me harder . . . _’_

It’s music to Gary’s ears. He doesn’t want it to stop, ever — but he knows it has to. The clock is approaching twelve, and any moment now the spell will be broken and everything that once was will turn into dust and never come back again.

But Gary keeps going. He has to, wants to. He slows down, draws out his thrusts as he moves in and out. He becomes less dominant again, nervous almost. He utters words he won’t remember in the morning, and he drapes himself over Mark’s perfect back again when he feels his lover tremble in the dark. Their bodies fit beautifully. They’re one and the same person now, if they weren’t before.

They continue fucking each other softly, almost romantically so. Gary moves his mouth to Mark’s ear and kisses him there. Gary knows now how hot it gets him, and Mark loves that he does. It’s just another secret they’ve unlocked.

Time keeps ticking away. Gary wants to cherish every moment. He slows down even more, wants to stay inside of Mark forever more. Mark doesn’t mind. He likes it like this too, gets turned on by it. He sighs contently at Gary’s constant love and affection, and it’s the kiss on the back of his head that makes him moan softly and come, quietly, against the bedsheets.

Gary’s close too. He can only draw out the moment for another minute. He rolls his hips one more time, and collapses on top of Mark’s back when he ejaculates. He wishes he hadn’t worn a condom. Maybe next time, he thinks. I hope there’s a next time.

The boys try to stay like this for another minute or more, just cuddling and kissing, but eventually the realisation hits them that they should probably go back to the party before someone walks into them after all. They both know it, but Mark still has to stifle a sound of disappointment when Gary slips out of him quite unceremonially and sits up on the bed. A wet patch on the bedsheets shows where Mark came, and his belly is still covered in cum. Gary wants to kiss it all off of him.

‘I loved that, Mark. Loved it.’

Mark grins. He sits up too. ‘Even better than the first time, Mr. Barlow?’

Gary touches the parts of Mark’s body that are still wet. _I_ did that, he thinks. _We_ did. ‘Just as good.’ He laughs, then turns red. ‘I mean, that was worth every penny, Mark.’

_Oh._

It’s a stupid slip of the tongue, no more than a polite thank-you because Gary doesn’t know how else to tell Mark how much he means to him, but Mark doesn’t know that. His smile fades. The sentence hurts. I’d forgotten about that, Mark thinks. Gary still thinks I’m _that_.

How could I have forgotten?

Mark tries not to let the hurt show. He composes himself and smiles. ‘I’m glad it was, Mr. Barlow,’ he says, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Strange sadness suddenly falls over him like an itchy blanket he can’t get rid of. He averts his gaze to their clothes on the floor and hates himself for ever thinking he and Gary could be anything other than strangers.

This was just a service, nothing more. Tomorrow, he’ll be one thousand pounds richer, not a lover.

Gary’s not a lover.

‘Anyway, we should probably head back to the party,’ Mark says as casually as he can, brushing away his feelings like they’re nothing but a fleck of dirt on his shoulder. He’ll get over this. He did last time. ‘All the mean people have probably left, you know,’ he adds, as if it’s a good reason why they should go back downstairs. He doesn’t really know what else to say, so he just gets up and starts getting his clothes together.

He wishes they’d stayed at Gary’s.

In the long two minutes it takes to get dressed on their own, the boys feel strangely alone. Gary doesn’t notice the change in Mark’s demeanour. Mark wipes the wetness off his tummy with the back of his hand and hopes no-one will notice later. Gary gets rid of the condom, carelessly so. Mark feels guilty for leaving the bed in such a messed-up state, but he knows he’ll only draw attention to himself if he starts taking care of it like he’s back in the hotel. Gary doesn’t care. He still thinks he’s in his twenties again, when he used to fuck guys on a daily basis.

But like back then, Gary’s high from his orgasm fades disappointingly quickly. Buttoning up his own shirt doesn’t feel as good after Mark took care of it just ten minutes ago. Putting on his wet boxers feels bloody uncomfortable, and likewise Mark feels like a right twat in his jockstraps. Why can’t they just act like they’re lovers for another second, handing each other their clothes like they would if they were actually together? Why does sex always have to end this way? Why does the realisation of who and what they are suddenly hit them so badly?

They don’t voice their thoughts. They just continue to get dressed, alone, and smile at each other a little uncertainly when they’re done. It feels odd, for the last time they had sex, Mark ended up staying the night in Gary’s hotel room. They woke up together and exchanged numbers, not realising how wrong it was. They felt beautiful and whole and nothing like a rent boy and his client. But now, they’re not even sure what to do next. They never discussed what they’d do after the party or even after they’d had sex — all they knew was that they’d definitely spend the evening together. When will they decide that the party is over and that they need to say their goodbyes?

Mark is holding his red scarf in one hand, unsure what to do with it. Eventually, he just lazily puts it round his neck, not bothering to tie it up. It’s nowhere near as sexy. Even his messy, ruffled hair looks nowhere near as attractive as it should. He doesn’t bother running his hands through it.

‘Shall we, Mr. Barlow?’ Mark’s stopped using his rent boy voice.

They unlock the door. Mark spares one more look at the ruined bed, prays for whoever will find it next, then closes the door behind him. They move quickly. Finding their way back is easier now that they’ve been here for two hours or more, and eventually they stumble back into the ballroom. Mark spots the security guard who nearly caught them a lifetime ago, but he doesn’t recognise the in the dark. Mark almost feels bad for the guy.

The ballroom is just as crowded as it was an hour ago. Gary’s drunk ‘fan’ is nowhere to be seen, and the guy who hit in Mark is slumped over a cocktail table, inebriated and alone but still checking people out. Mark doesn’t feel quite so sorry for _him_.

It’s an odd place to be in, right now. Deep down, the boys desperately want to go home and do some cuddling or rather, but Gary doesn’t mention it and Mark assumes that Gary won’t want to leave until he’s talked to at least twenty more faces from the music industry, so they mingle. They try to be sociable. They talk to singers and producers and DJs and composers, and they must have seen the glow on Gary’s face because they talk to him a lot more amicably. Mark just listens and nods his head when someone says something that sounds a bit clever. But truth be told, he couldn’t care less.

With each business card Gary receives, the sex they had feels further and further away than ever. Mark tries to touch Gary’s hand every now and then, but it’s not the same. The clock has struck twelve, and the spell has been broken. Mark’s ride is about to turn into a big, mouldy pumpkin. And Gary? He’ll no longer be the prince Mark once thought he was.

It’s a quarter past twelve. The party is going stale. Gary, Mark, and two women in their thirties have entered a conversation about pianos or panels or something. Gary thinks it’s the best thing ever, but Mark’s rather bored. He excuses himself.

‘I’m think gonna get some fresh air,’ Mark tells Gary in the conversation’s pause.

Gary spots the odd look on Mark’s face. He looks pale. ‘You all right, Mark?’

‘Just need some fresh air,’ Mark reiterates. He can’t think of anything else to say.

Gary doesn’t have a reason to doubt Mark, so he believes the lie, if it’s even a lie at all. ‘Okay. But don’t go home without me, all right? I’m not leaving without you.’

Gary says these words like they’re common knowledge, and the kiss he gives Mark’s cheek next nearly brings back the butterflies again. It changes the mood. They look at each other in the neon lights of the party while the women next to them continue talking (something about a brand new keyboard), and for a moment their worries about the night’s end vanish in front of them. They forget how awkward they felt getting dressed.

Could money not play a role after all? Will this still turn out to be much more than just a ‘service’?

Maybe, Mark thinks. _Maybe_.

Mark smiles back at Gary. He feels the love again. He kisses Gary back and forgets the hurt he felt earlier. ‘That was worth every penny’ stops ringing in his ears. It’s replaced by the song in the background, gentle and melodious in the night.

‘Be right back, Mr. Barlow.’

‘Don’t be long.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

Gary grins as he watches Mark leave. His arse looks pert in those tight little trousers of his, and Gary feels like bending him over and spanking him all over again. Mark would probably let him if he asked nicely.  

Mark’s feeling a lot better already. He feels stupid for worrying. He considers looking over his shoulder and giving Gary a particularly dirty look, but by the time he turns round he’s already surrounded by a crowd of people. He keeps going, and once he reaches the end of the crowd he finds himself at the ballroom entrance, where he and Gary sprinted off into an adjoining hallway two hours ago. He’s been through so many emotions since that it feels like he’s already been at the party for a century or more.

The whirlwind of emotions is almost overwhelming, so Mark decides to leave the mansion and breathe in the evening’s fresh air on the front steps. A couple of guests have gathered to smoke and finish their glasses of wine on the red carpet, but Mark can only smell freshly mowed grass and petrichor. It’s soothing. The stars have come out. The blanket of stars in the sky is more beautiful than he’s ever seen it, and Mark assumes it must be some sort of sign. Things are better here. They’re better when he’s with Gary.

Mark stays outside for a few minutes or more, just taking in his surroundings. He tries to count the people coming and going, but he gives up after twenty. A cold breeze tickles the skin below his collarbone, and he wraps his scarf round his neck tighter. It reminds him of Gary. He briefly considers walking round the mansion and finding the big verdant labyrinth that he and Gary saw on their way here, but he saves the thought for later. He and Gary could get lost in it before they leave, wandering the green paths till they find each other again.

The fresh air helps. His ears are no longer ringing. All at once, his head is clear. He no longer thinks of the uncertainty he felt tonight. Surrounded by the dark of a summer night, he again forgets what he came here for. I don’t have anything to worry about, he tells himself. The truth is just a nasty prickle on the back of his neck. He doesn’t even consider what will happen once Gary finds out who he is.

There’s a plethora of things and people to distract Mark on the front steps of the mansion (like the young women with business cards piling out of their pockets, or the man who’s carrying a brand new keyboard under his arm like it’s no big deal, or the beautiful bronze statues surrounding the mansion’s exterior), but his mind keeps landing on Gary. He convinces himself that Gary must think of him as a lot more too. He _must_ do. Surely Gary felt the butterflies when they kissed? Surely he felt that amazing flush in his chest after they’d had sex? _He must have done._

Something prompts Mark to go back inside. It’s not an issue: the bouncer recognises him, nods his head and lets Mark in, and for a second Mark feels like he’s a living, moving part of the world he’s stepping into. He could get used to parties like this, he tells himself. He could see himself doing this sort of thing more often as long as Gary’s by his side and there’s no-one trying to make things difficult for them. They’d be boyfriends, not the other thing. Mark would never be worth anyone’s money ever again.

Mark slowly finds his way back to the ballroom. He can’t really remember where he left Gary, so he scours the crowd for hot men with blonde quiffs. He can’t see Gary anywhere.

He moves deeper into the crowd. People recognise him as Gary’s plus-one and stare back at him. Some pity Mark because of who Gary Barlow is, others think he’s bloody intriguing because why on Earth would someone so young and _new_ spend so much time with a written-off solo artist? There must be something about this guy. But what, the crowd doesn’t know; all they can do is wonder and gossip while the newbie walks past them.

The attention is unfamiliar. Mark hates it at first, then revels in it. He likes it. It makes him want to walk up to Gary and kiss him whilst people watch. They could pretend they’re lovers, boyfriends even. They could make the entire world think that they’ve been together for _years_.

The thought of showing Gary his affection in public turns Mark on. It makes him appreciate the party. He walks faster, undeterred by all the thoughts he’s ever had before, and stops in his tracks when he spots Gary talking to his boss.

_Mark’s_ boss.

The sight nearly bowls Mark over. He stumbles into another guest; feels a scared pang in his chest. All the positivity he felt before leaves his body as he panics. He tries to disappear into the thinning crowd, but it’s already too late. Gary’s spotted him. His boss, Mr. Pearce, has too. Gary waves, and Mark freezes on the spot. The colour drains from his skin.

He knows then that the party’s over.

Mr. Pearce waves at Mark too. He doesn’t look drunk. He’s wearing an ill-fitting black suit that’s making his beer belly look even bigger than ever. His face is looking at Mark quizzically but kindly, and usually Mark would not have minded meeting his boss in public except _Mark’s not here as a hotel employee._

One wrong word, and he’s done.

They’re done.

Gary doesn’t see the conflict on Mark’s face. He waves at Mark again, and Mark has no choice but to join the conversation or else face leaving the party. He says nothing. He doesn’t even acknowledge his boss. Maybe Mr. Pearce won’t even recognise him — he does have about two hundred employees in his London hotel.

Wrong.

Mr. Pearce alternates amused glances between Gary and Mark. He speaks genially. He sounds like Mark’s his mate rather than a member of his staff. ‘You never told me you knew Gary Barlow, Mark! I’ve been trying to talk him into doing a residency at our London hotel for years!’

Mark jerks at hearing his own name being uttered. He blanches and looks away. He can’t speak. He doesn’t even smile.

Gary frowns. He looks at Mr. Pearce, who’s kindly offered Gary some sort of residency at his London hotel. (Gary could do the nightly entertainment at the restaurant, Mr. Pearce said. It sounded an awful lot like being asked to perform on a cruise ship, but Gary didn’t mention it. It might even be a good thing, this.) ‘You two know each other?’

The question makes Mark feel sick. He tries to find Gary’s hand in the dark. He feels like he’s in a speeding car he can’t get out of. ‘Why don’t we go home, Gary?’ he croaks, and it comes out as a cry for help. He tries to speak kindly and patiently whilst his insides are burning with fear and regret. ‘ _Please_.’

Gary smiles uncertainly. He doesn’t recognise Mark like this. Where has the smile gone? ‘Mark, I’m kinda in the middle of something here . . .’

Mark wants to ask Gary what he could possibly want with the manager of a hotel, but no words come out. As though petrified, he can only look at Gary with scared, pleading eyes that Gary doesn’t recognise. What has happened that Mark is looking at him like that? Why is he no longer smiling and why does his hand no longer fit Gary’s like a glove?

What is happening here?

Gary never gets the chance to consider the question.

‘Mark’s probably right, you know,’ the manager says suddenly, more to Gary than Mark. He has no way of knowing the misery his next words will cause. ‘He has an early shift tomorrow!’

The comment delivers a blow to Gary’s chest that he doesn’t understand. A nasty feeling of premonition creeps over him when Mark looks down at the floor. His smile has faded. Why would Mark have an early shift at the hotel tomorrow? It’s not like he _works_ there, and there’s no way Mr. Pearce would talk about Mark being a rent boy so frankly. Unless —

Gary hardly recognises his own voice. He must sound like a terrified child. ‘Mark, what does he mean, you have an early shift tomorrow?’

It must be a joke, this, Gary tells himself. Mark’s going to go home with him and they’re going to make love again and everything will be wonderful. Tomorrow morning, they’ll wake up in each other’s arms and feel more comfortable than they ever have. And if the moment is right and the stars align perfectly in the night sky, they’ll realise how in love they are with each other and become lovers, for real.

But the stars never come out. It’s Mr. Pearce’s time to frown. ‘Surely Mark mentioned that he works for me at the hotel! Best receptionist I’ve ever had.’ He looks at Gary and lowers his voice conspiratorially. He utters his next words like he’s telling a particularly funny in-joke. ‘Well, he used to be, anyway. It’s like his head’s in the clouds these days, bless him.’

Mr. Pearce’s words hit Gary like cold water from a bucket. _Mark works at the hotel._

He works at the hotel, which means —

Mark can’t stop the words from coming. The truth twists Gary’s stomach. He feels like he’s about to throw up. _Mark’s not a rent boy._

Gary’s face turns bright red, more from anger than the wine he’s had. He feels painfully sober now. Every part of him wants to scream and shout and tear this place apart, but he doesn’t. He won’t. His voice remains calm whilst a storm is raging inside. ‘No, Mr. Pearce he’s never mentioned it. Funny, that.’

Mr. Pearce puts his hands on his hips and laughs. ‘Well, then. And here I was, thinking people were proud of working for me! Oh, well. Can’t have everything, can we?’ He holds out his hand then, completely oblivious to the conflict he’s helped cause. Gary gives it a half-arsed shake. ‘Anyway, I better be off. Do consider that order I made you, Mr. Barlow. I think we’d both benefit if you performed at our London chain for a few nights. I really do love your work, you know.’

Then Mr. Pearce turns to his employee and gives him an odd look. It makes Mark feel smaller and more insignificant than ever. He feels like the world as he knows it just got turned upside down in front of him.

_He_ did this. _He_ ruined this.

Mr. Pearce’s voice breaches his consciousness. ‘I guess I’ll be seeing you at reception tomorrow, Mark? We’ve got that business conference coming up, remember.’

Mark gives a small nod. His answer comes out as a squeak. ‘Of course, Mr. Pearce.’

‘Excellent. Have a good night, you two.’

By the time Mr. Pearce has bid the boys adieu and left the party, Gary’s ears are ringing with the terrible lies he’s been told. He keeps repeating them in his mind, over and over: Mark’s not a rent boy — He was probably never even interested in him — He just took Gary’s money like it was nothing and got off on it — _Mark’s not a rent boy_.

It’s disgusting. It makes Gary feel dirty. He wants to wash his body clean and burn the clothes Mark took off of him. (Hell — did Mark even enjoy the sex they had? Probably not. Mark probably pretended he did just so he could get paid.) But most of all, Gary hates himself for not seeing it before. The man they met in the hotel, Mr. Doyle, the one who gave Mark a big tip — he wasn’t one of Mark’s clients, he was a fucking _guest at the hotel_. Nothing more. And Mark played right into it. He made Gary pay for kissing him and never even fucking _blinked_.

Mark can see the anger on Gary’s face. He reaches out for Gary’s hand, but Gary brushes him away, clutches his fists. He can’t look Mark in the eye. It’s like the starry sky that Mark once thought looked so hopeful has clouded over.

He tries to reason with Gary. ‘Gary, I c-can explain,’ he stammers, but he’s not sure if he can explain it at all. He doesn’t know what’s happening anymore. All he knows for sure is that when Gary looks at him next all the love has left his eyes.

‘You were never a rent boy, were you, Mark?’

Mark tenses at the question. ‘P-please, Gary. I can explain. I-It’s just a misunderstanding.’

It’s the wrong thing to say. Gary scoffs at it. All the infatuation he felt for Mark before has evaporated. All he feels now is anger and disgust. Mark _used_ him. ‘Christ, Mark. A _misunderstanding_? The only misunderstanding is _you_ , Mark. You _lied to me._ ’ He lowers his voice; doesn’t want the other guests to find out about the trap Mark set for him. ‘ _Why_? Did you think I was pathetic? Did you think I was just some toy you could play with? Did you need the money, is that it?’

Mark looks down at the floor, ashamed. He closes his eyes as though it will make Gary’s next words hit him less painfully. He knows everything Gary is saying is true, and it hurts even more that way. This wasn’t just a misunderstanding; it was about the money all along. He just _had_ to have more of it.

But Gary’s not done yet. His voice cracks. Tears sting his eyes as the rest of his words catch in his throat. They hurt so much that he can barely get them out. ‘D’you know what, I could give you me entire fucking fortune and I wouldn’t care, Mark, really I wouldn’t. But you took me _heart_ , Mark. You were _inside_ of me.’

There’s no other way of saying it: Mark _took_ something from him. He entered his mind and his body fully knowing what lies he was telling, and for what, to get paid? To come home with dirty banknotes? What kind of person does that?

It’s the worst violation Gary’s ever been through, and the worst thing about it is that they both know that they’d fallen in love. They just do. Despite the lies and the arrangements, they felt something that went deeper than sex and money and getting off. At some point down the road, they fell in love and wanted to be more than they’d ever been. But now that Mark’s secret is out, they can’t go there anymore. Mark’s no more than a cheat and a liar, like all the other men Gary’s has ever met. It’s yet another disappointment in an industry that no longer feels sacred.

Gary gives a sad shake of his head as he realises what an idiot he’s been. He tries to laugh, but no sound comes out. He can hardly even speak. ‘You know what, you could have taken everything I own, Mark, absolutely _everything_ , but that wasn’t enough, was it? No, mate, you just _had_ to make me fall in love with you instead.’

The confession hits Mark hard. They both have to blink away tears. Gary swallows hard as he realises that Mark no longer makes him feel anything.

‘That’s not a _misunderstanding_ , Mark, it’s cruel, is what it is. You’re _cruel_.’

Around them, the world keeps spinning. The music never stops; it just fades into one song after another. Guests dance and have fun. They laugh at jokes and exchange phone numbers, but they never notice the conflict Gary Barlow and his plus-one are in the middle of.

For Mark and Gary, the party has come to a screeching halt. The truth is out in the open. Mark is a cheat and a liar, and he’ll never be able to prove otherwise. This is his destiny now. He’s everything Gary’s described and more, and what’s worse is that he ruined everything what could have been. In another world, they’d have fallen in love. They already had, in a way. But now, the far-fetched dream of a relationship has shattered beneath their feet. They free-fall a million feet into the dark, with no way of getting out. Everything that could have been disappears into the storm they’re in the centre of. They’re still together in the middle of the crowd, ignored, but they couldn’t possibly feel more alone.

The worst is yet to come. Gary’s demeanour changes. Mark doesn’t know if he’s faking it. He just looks Mark up and down like he’s no more than a nasty insect he’s about to step on, and scoffs. He shakes his head; musters up all the disgust he feels inside. ‘You know what, mate, I don’t even know why I ever fell for you.’

Gary doesn’t scream it; he just utters it like a fact. It makes it worse that way. Mark _would_ shout if he could, _beg_ Gary to forgive him — but he can’t. He knows that the line they crossed is set in stone. They’ll never fix this. All he can do is stand there, petrified, as Gary drives the last knife into his heart.

‘I hope you were happy being a slut, Mark. I hope it was fucking worth it.’

The insult is foreign to Gary’s tongue, but Mark doesn’t know that. It _hurts_ , and he’s so ashamed that he can’t even watch Gary walk away from him. He just stares at the floor, heartbroken. How could he ever think this would end well? How could he have sunk so impossibly low? Why did he not just say no when Gary offered him money and accept Gary as a lover, not a client?

This should never have happened.

Lost and disoriented, Mark decides to leave the building. He won’t remember it afterwards. His legs move on their own. The walls feel like they’re moving in towards him. He feels dizzy. He stumbles into partying guests who are red in the face, and people let him because they assume he’s drunk. He’s not. He feels more sober than he’s ever been.

The music pierces his ears. The lights are too bright. The arm of a body he walks into makes him recoil, and he doesn’t even say sorry. He just walks and walks and walks until his tired feet drag him into the harsh fresh air and he throws up into a flower bush.

It burns. The smell of it makes bile rise up his throat again. He swallows it down; wipes his mouth with the back of his shaking hand. It’s disgusting. _He_ is.

Mark’s never felt anything like it. He’s felt regret and guilt over a break-up before, but never like this. Never this painful. It’s shaken Mark to the core, and every part of him is fighting to get it out before it can reach his heart.

He throws up again. He heaves. His body trembles. He can hardly stay upright. He breaks out into some sort of cold sweat, and he’s almost glad he does because it’s nowhere near as bad as the heartache.

Time quickly becomes blurred. Mark doesn’t know how much time has passed when his heart stops racing. The guilt that his body made him puke out is replaced with something else: sadness, _despair_.

It’s suffocating.

His tired feet somehow manage to drag Mark forwards, and he suddenly finds himself sitting on a dirty wooden bench somewhere, his head in his hands. The smell of flowers make him feel sick again. His entire body is glistening with sweat, but the dark stains on his scarf were made by tears. He can’t remember crying them.

He tries to straighten. He wipes his wet cheeks with the back of his hand. It reeks. He feels cold, and he wishes he’d put on a large coat. His jacket offers no comfort at all.  

Mark foolishly wishes Gary were there to hold him, and the summer night no longer feels so comfortable when his mind conjures up the memory of Gary kissing him. He has to close his eyes to get rid of it. He hates himself for it. He hates himself for everything and anything he’s ever done.

I’ve never hurt someone like this, he keeps telling himself. He’s a good man. In his relationships, Mark has always been kind. He never lies. His hands are always warm, his hugs always tight and wonderful. He never fakes a smile and he’d never dream of hurting a lover. Previous break-ups were often hard and complicated, but he was always the loving kind. He’s never intentionally broken someone’s heart — so what is going on here? What has he turned into? This is not _him_ , and yet he did it. All of it. He said yes when Gary offered him money and kept their charade going all throughout the night. _Why_? Was he really that desperate for money?

Mark guesses he must have been, deep down. His entire working life, he’s been surrounded by people richer than him: at the local tailor’s (he had a brief stint of selling bags and clothes when he was fourteen), at the bank, at the hotel. They were the young men needing their first business suits; the men and women with their big cheques at the bank; and lately, the demanding guests he meets at reception. Some are kind, but they’re all rich and Mark isn’t. He has to make do with an average salary while the people he serves look down on him with their Rolex watches and diamond earrings.

Every day, someone, somewhere, will shout at Mark for not doing a good enough job. They’ll mollify him with promises of good tips and promotion, but at the end of the day it’s Mark who has to clean the shit off a bathroom floor. _He_ has to answer to guests’ demands time and time again, so is he really such a bad person for wanting a taste of luxury too? Should he really be restricted to living in his dirty, cramped London apartment while someone like Gary resides in a mansion as large as a theme park?

Maybe. Maybe not. Admittedly, Mark’s hardly even used the money Gary gave him. It bought him his waistcoat and his jacket, yes — but how else was he meant to spend it? It won’t pay his rent, it won’t fill the holes in his apartment walls; it’ll just make his jacket feel heavier and heavier until it won’t fit him no more.

In a flash of desperation, Mark considers getting rid of the one thousand pounds Gary gave him. It’s only now that he fully realises where he is: in the mansion’s back garden, a stone’s throw away from the maze he wanted to get lost in. From here, he can see right into the ballroom, but people can’t look back at him. He’s perfectly hidden in the mansion’s shadows, alone in his mourning.

He reaches into his pocket and carelessly removes the roll of money, not really caring if he damages it. He turns it over in his hands. It doesn’t even feel like a lot of money. Just one breeze, and the notes will flutter away like the ticker tape at Gary’s concerts.

Mark’s hands are still trembling, but the rest of his body is depleted of all its energy. It makes his next action take a lot of effort, and he feels a cold chill run down his spine when he tears up the first banknote. No-one sees him doing it; the bench he’s sitting on is too far away from the mansion for that, and why would anyone be interested in him anyway? He’s just a stranger in a world he’s not familiar with. He’s no-one.

He tears up the second note. It doesn’t make him feel anything. 

The third note lands in small pieces on the ground. With each note he tears up, Mark feels less and less until he’s left with a gaping hole in his heart. With the money gone, he serves no more purpose. He might as well leave the mansion now and walk the longest walk of shame of his life. He’s probably deserved it as well.

It’s done. Mark gets up from the bench slowly. He feels like he has a hangover: he feels his heartbeat thump painfully against his temple, and his legs feel so heavy and unfamiliar that they might as well belong to a different person. The torn-up bank notes are strewn all over the trampled grass, and a single gust of wind makes them float away from his feet a second later. It doesn’t make him feel any better, but it doesn’t make him feel any worse either. His feelings are meaningless.

Mark’s decided to keep a single one-hundred-pound note for the taxi, or maybe he just wants a last reminder of the wrongs he’s committed. Either way, something puts his legs into motion, and he doesn’t stop until he reaches his private labyrinth of thoughts and finds it completely hollow.

♬

The restroom is empty save for a drunk man bent over a sink. Gary ignores him. He runs the tap of an adjacent sink and washes his hands with soap till they’re bright red.

He takes off his wine-stained jacket in a hurry. It lands in a heap of black velvet on the floor, and Gary decides to leave it there. He doesn’t want it anymore.

He feels dirty still. He washes his hands again and splashes his face with lukewarm water. It doesn’t help.

He hasn’t had a proper look at himself since they left the house. He catches his reflection in the mirror, and it takes him aback. Face red, blonde quiff a little ruffled (Mark’s doing — _bastard_ ), he looks like a right mess, like he’s been up all night. He feels like he has.

Gary still feels like he has Mark’s scent all over his body, so he rolls up the sleeves of his black jacket and washes his arms with soap. It doesn’t help, and he wishes he could take a shower and brush his teeth under there’s no more reminder of Mark on him.

He washes his face again. He tries not to think about Mark when he does; tries not to be reminded of their evening when he sees he buttoned up his black shirt like a fool, with the buttons in all the wrong places. Gary doesn’t bother adjusting it because it’ll only remind him of Mark’s fingers on him. He doesn’t want to think about Mark again, ever. Mark’s _hurt_ him, and that’s all he needs to remember. He wants to drink away every single memory until he pukes them out and he’ll no longer even know who Mark Owen was.

He thinks he’s finished. He turns off the tap and turns to a towel dispenser to his right. In his anger, he pulls down the cotton towel a bit too rigorously, and the thing gets stuck. He swears. The man at the other sink looks up at him with blood-shot eyes, and for a moment Gary wonders if the man’s a journalist keen to catch him in a bad light. (Alas, the stranger is just some random producer.)

The paper towel dispenser is broken. Gary ignores the stranger and dries his hands on his trousers instead. He feels cleaner, but not better. There’s an ache in his tummy where butterflies used to be, and his head is pounding. And he knows he ought to go home, but he’s terrified of seeing Mark again and wanting to clock him one. No, maybe he’ll stay here until morning, when only hungover artists and there managers are left. Maybe he won’t feel so ashamed of falling for Mark’s charade in the morning sun.

Except (and Gary actually hates himself for realising this _now_ , and stops in his tracks when he does) — wasn’t _he_ the one who caused this mess? Mark never brought up being a rent boy, _he_ did. Mark never spoke of money the first time they met, _Gary_ did. He blindly assumed that someone dressed as impeccably as Mark must be a sex worker by definition, and he never even considered the fact that _maybe_ Mark came up to him because he just fucking fancied him?

Gary stops in the restroom doorway. Despite his best efforts to never think about Mark ever again, he immediately tries to recall the conversation he and Mark had the first time they met. Mark looked at him in the bar, made eyes at him. Mark came over and sat next to him while Gary made a big fool of himself. They flirted, Mark more so. Gary brought up their respective jobs, and Mark was suspiciously quiet about it. Gary assumed it must have been because Mark had some job that involved a lot of paid sex, but of course it was actually because Mark didn’t want to admit that he worked at the hotel. (Makes sense, really, Gary thinks. Mark probably had the day off.) Then Mr. Doyle showed up and gave Mark a very big tip, and Gary foolishly turned their worlds upside down by asking Mark _how much he charged for a night with him._

By now, it was already too late for Gary to take back his words. The deed was done, and what could Mark do but nod his head and agree? Gary would probably have done the same if he were offered something he needed, like a brand new record deal. He’d have gone on his knees for that without even blinking. 

And Mark being Mark, he’d probably not have said no anyway. He’s gentle, Mark is. He saw how desperately Gary wanted him, for better or worse, and at the end of the day Mark’s worst offence was not lying or pretending to be someone else he wasn’t — it was _being kind_. He could easily have collected the money he earned and left while Gary slept, but he never did. Mark _stayed_.

But still, Gary thinks, can I really trust Mark after what he did? Is this really someone I can forgive? He might have been okay with Mark lying about who he was for one night, but Mark kept it up _for two weeks_. Even his texts were full of lies.

Who’s in the wrong here? Is it Gary, who painted Mark as something he wasn’t, or Mark, who played right into it?

Gary feels conflicted. It angers him. He’s torn between driving straight home and going back inside the ballroom. He wants to shout at Mark for lying at him and making him feel fucking shit, but he also wants to tell him how sorry he is. He wants to shower the last remnants of Mark’s scent off his skin and tear up his clothes and burn them and never again sit on the sofa where Mark sat and kiss him at the same time.

This last thought takes Gary by surprise. He leaves the restroom at last and leans against a wall.

_He still wants to kiss Mark._

It confuses him. It was easier being angry. But now, he’s not so sure anymore. Two minutes ago he was ready to tear up every inch of the restroom he was in, but now a single realization in the back of his mind turns everything upside down again.

This wasn’t Mark’s fault.

No — _No_. He doesn’t want to think about that. Mark was _wrong_. He was right.

Gary doesn’t know anymore. The conflicting truths in his mind are becoming more and more complicated.

The music isn’t helping. He presses a hand to his temple; his head is thumping. It’s like he has an angel on one shoulder and a devil on his other, both telling him different stories that he refuses to believe.

It wasn’t Mark’s fault — _It_ was _._

Gary never liked the guy anyway — _He did._

What they had meant nothing — _It did. It always did._

The sex wasn’t even that good — _Mark was the best shag Gary has had in years._

The more Gary thinks about it, the more confusing it gets. He can’t tell apart the different songs in the ballroom anymore. The different neon colours become blurred. He doesn’t know what’s right or what’s wrong, just that he wants to find the truth that is most convenient. After all, wouldn’t it be much easier to be angry than to be in love? Wouldn’t he be much better off if he hated Mark for lying instead of loving him? What good does love ever do anyway?

Anger is easy. Anger fades. You can step on a treadmill and run it off or batter a punching bag or write a song about it, but you don’t just get rid of a broken heart. Broken hearts are there to stay, forever, and a permanently broken heart is exactly where Gary’s path is headed. If he decides to forgive Mark and trust him again, he’ll essentially be giving his soul away. One way or another, he’ll get hurt. He doesn’t want to get hurt.

And what would reconciliation give them, anyway? Could they really just get back together like nothing had ever happened? Could they have _sex_ , knowing what they did? Could they still love each other unconditionally and kiss without thinking of the money that was spent? Mark lied _once_ , after all — who’s to say he wouldn’t do it again?

No, Gary thinks suddenly, maybe it’s better this way, to not know all the answers. That way, I’ll never get hurt again.

He makes up his mind. He pushes away the silly thought of ever trusting Mark again. This _was_ Mark’s fault, Gary tells himself, not his. The only thing _he_ ever did wrong was trusting someone like Mark to love him, that’s all. He will walk out of this guilt-free. The wounds have already worsened too much to be mended anyway. In a week’s time, he’ll wake up in the morning and not want Mark there anymore.

It’s settled, then. Gary’s leaving. He’s not going to stay at this party for a second longer than he has to. He got what he came for, after all: a dozen business cards and a producer’s private phone number. He needs nothing more.

Gary’s mind feels clearer, even if it’s all just pretend. He retrieves his phone from his pocket and texts James; asks him if he can please come pick him up at the party? James replies immediately and says he’ll be there between ten and fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. He doesn’t ask Gary any awkward questions about the party, and Gary doesn’t bring it up. This is a night he’ll keep close to his chest until the day he dies.

Gary steps outside. The mansion serves no more purpose, so he decides he’s going to take a walk on the mansion grounds to clear his mind and have a look at the garden. Unless he bumps into someone, which is unlikely, he reckons James will probably already be waiting for him in the car by the time he’s back.

He moves. Only a couple of minutes in, he loses his way on the gravel path. He doesn’t know where he’s going. He quickly begins to regret his decision not to stay in the mansion. A pebble gets stuck in his shoe. The summer air is cold; a lot colder than Gary thought it was going to be. He wishes he hadn’t left his jacket on the bathroom floor, but then again he didn’t fancy wearing it anymore. It still smelled of Mark when he took it off.

The back garden is dark. Only a few bollards are there to light his way. He wishes he’d stayed in front of the mansion entrance, where he could watch guests and taxis disappear into the distance until they were no more than an unfamiliar name on a business card. He wonders if any of the people he met tonight will try to contact him tomorrow. Knowing his luck, probably not.

Gary finally reaches the familiar green maze he saw from a distance, and he reckons he’s walked more than enough. If he turns back now, he’ll probably be back on the front steps by the time James arrives. The thought soothes him. He'll be back in his own bed, comfortably alone, in no time at all. He won’t miss Mark for a single second, even though he’s thought about not thinking about Mark for the past seven minutes.

Then the night changes. Gary thinks he can hear something coming from deep inside the maze. It’s a voice, one he can hardly make out:

‘Where’s your boyfriend?’

‘H-he’s not my boyfriend.’

‘Right, your _manager_ , then.’ Two voices. Both male. This one sounds dominant. Frightening. Young, but not that young. Maybe in his late twenties. He continues speaking. ‘He’s not doing such a good job, though, is he? I can’t believe he’d just leave you on your own like that.’

The guy says something else, but Gary can’t make it out. But whatever it is, it makes the other voice sounds scared. His words are barely audible through the thick green walls of the maze, and Gary has to hold in his breath to make them out. ‘H-he’s gonna be here any second,’ the scared guy says, his voice wavering in the dark. ‘Just y-you wait. We’re meeting up here, you know.’

An odd premonition prompts Gary to come closer. He feels like this is something he needs to become involved in, for better or worse. He slowly enters the green, narrow belly of the hedge maze and walks into the sound’s direction, not knowing what he’s about to get himself into. He no longer remembers the anger he felt before, just the worry and anxiety that’s beginning to take over his stomach.

He has a bad feeling about this.

‘Is he, now?’ It’s the dominant voice again. He’s taunting the other guy. ‘Where is he, then? I can’t see him anywhere, can _you_?’

The voices become less muffled. Gary can suddenly make out every word as he follows the green walls that make up the labyrinth, his fingers tracing the sturdy dwarf box hedge. Something tells him to turn right. The voices disappear again. He turns back, where the path is no longer made of gravel but just wet dirt. He heads left, and the voices become as clear as if he were standing at the other side of the green hedge. Where next?

The other voice, the one that sounds so achingly afraid, speaks again. ‘He’s gonna be here any second, y-you know,’ he reiterates, scared. _Intimidated._ And yet — familiar. But why? ‘H-he probably just got lost,’ he says. Even more afraid.

‘ _Lost_?’

‘Y-yeah.’

The scary stranger scoffs. He’s mocking the other guy. ‘ _Nah._ I don’t think so. You know what _I_ reckon? I reckon he just _left_ you here, all on your own, in the _dark_ , forgotten.’ (Where is this conversation going? Why is this stranger intimidating the other guy so?) ‘Cos he _is_ going to forget about you, you know. That’s what guys like him _do._ They’ll play with you for a couple of months and toss you aside when they longer need you. But _I’d_ never do that. I’m not that kind of man. I’d treat you _right_ , Mark.’

_Mark_? Why would —

Then the penny drops. The familiar Mancunian tilt finally breaches Gary’s subconscious.

It’s Mark and _Adam_. Adam, the creepy talent scout!

Gary forgets everything he’s feeling in that moment. He needs to help Mark. It’s the only thought his scared, confused mind can conjure up. _He needs to help Mark._

He picks up the pace. He forgets the anger and the hurt and the pebble in his shoe as he fights his way through the dark hedge maze, getting closer and closer but never getting closer at all.

‘I know exactly what you need, Mark. All you need is a little nudge, that’s all. Just a nudge . . .’ It’s Adam. In the dark, he sounds more terrifying than if Gary were there to see him.

‘P-please just go, Adam.’ Mark again. _Scared_. This is wrong. This is very wrong indeed. ‘Please. I’m – I’m all right being on my own.’

‘And leave you all alone in the dark? No way, Mark, a _nything_ could happen . . .’

It’s the icy yelp that Mark lets out next that does it.

‘ _Mark_!’ The name sounds unfamiliar to Gary’s tongue, but he still makes a run for it. He nearly stumbles his own two feet. He quickly becomes out of breath. He wants to break through the green walls, but can’t. He doesn’t know where to go. He takes a left turn. The voices become louder. Mark’s is scared. The other is hungry; intimidating. He’s a threat.

Mark’s in trouble.

Gary turns right. It’s a dead end. He turns back, no longer even knowing he was ever mad at Mark. All he feels is _fear._

He follows the path he was in before; takes a right turn. He walks and walks and walks. His heart hammers in his chest. His ears are buzzing and he can no longer make out the voices he was following. The trail goes dead as his shoes sink into a deep puddle of mud. His body goes cold with horror. _Anything_ could have happened.

Then he spots it. Right there, a path he hasn’t been in yet!

He follows it. The pebble in his shoe hurts like hell. He doesn’t care. He keeps going and going until the buzzing stops and the voices come back and he feels a pang when he sees Adam clutching Mark’s arm in the centre of the maze.

He hollers as loudly as he can. It takes him by surprise. ‘LET GO OF HIM!’

Adam starts. He stumbles backwards a little tipsily. He lets go of Mark’s arm, and Mark steps away against the green walls of the labyrinth, scared and pale. He touches his arm where Adam held him but doesn’t look Gary in the eye. Gary wasn’t expecting him to. He’s not come here to make amends.

Despite the fright of being interrupted by someone like Gary, Adam still thinks he owns the very ground he’s stepping on. ‘He’s not _yours_ , Barlow,’ he spits drunkenly, his words full of slurred venom and disdain. ‘ _I’m_ about to sign him, not me. He’ll be working for _me,_ ’ he adds, with a demonstrative finger pointing at his chest.

The gesture makes Gary scoff. He tries to sound strong even though he doesn’t feel strong at all. ‘Jesus Christ, Adam. Are you hearing yourself? If Mark tells you to leave him alone, you should bloody well leave him alone, mate. Go find someone else to try your tricks on. He’s not even a fucking artist, Mark isn’t. He’s just someone who works at a _hotel_ , is all.’

Adam laughs too. He slurs his next words. ‘When did _you_ become so boring, Barlow? You used to be the real life of the party once.’

‘I don’t know, mate, maybe I just got sick of people like you poisoning the fucking industry,’ Gary says. He’s beginning to feel angry again, but this time it’s justified. He wants to punch this guy, or maybe drop a piano on top of him. (Big bloody waste of a piano, though.) ‘You lot, you don’t care about music, you don’t. All you care about is finding the next big thing to get you off. Cos that’s what you do, isn’t it, Adam? You promise new artists the _world_ as long as they fucking sleep with you. That’s not how the music industry _works_ , mate. If you wanna become big, you work hard and make sacrifices and you don’t sleep for a week cos you’re terrified of being dropped again, that’s what being in this industry is.’

Adam lets out a short bark of a laugh. ‘At least _my_ artists still write hits, Barlow.’ He turns to Mark, who flinches a little. Gary wishes he could hold him again, if only for second. If _only_. ‘He’s a _loser_ , Mark. You’re wasting your time with him. We could have a good time, you and I. I could make you a star, whether you’re an artist or not. I could _make_ you one.’

Something in Adam’s words make Mark look up from the ground, and his scared blue eyes meet Gary’s; not Adam’s. It would usually have made Gary jerk awake, go red, feel butterflies in the pit of his stomach but — Gary doesn’t know what they’re saying anymore, those eyes. He wishes he did. Once upon a night, he thought he could see every single thought and desire reflected in the blues of Mark’s eyes, as bright as beautiful as they were — now, they’re just as hollow as the hole the night left in their hearts. They might as well be the eyes of a complete stranger.

But then Mark looks at Adam again, and everything changes. There’s a quiet resolve in his blue eyes that puts Gary’s heart right back into motion. There’s a future in them yet, he thinks. They might be able to save this after all, and that’s exactly what they end up doing.

Mark straightens. He tries to make himself look taller. ‘Unless one of _your_ songs charts in 47 countries I’m sticking with Gaz, Adam. Sorry.’

The comment takes Adam and Gary by surprise. It flatters Gary but hurts Adam’s pride, if he ever had one at all. But Mark’s not finished yet. He utters his next words with such politeness that he might as well be talking about tea or puppies or the British weather. ‘But know this, all right; if you _ever_ touch me like that again I’m gonna make sure you can never use your willy again. You got that?’

Mark’s words hit the mark. Gary almost lets out a laugh, but swallows it down when he sees Mark isn’t smiling. Adam’s smug face falls. He tries to channel the last shred of his dignity into his voice, but he sounds so tipsy that he might as well be talking gibberish. Suddenly, Gary’s glad _he_ never turned out like that. He may not be loved or popular or in demand anymore, but at least he still treats the people around him with respect. 

Finally, Adam more or less finds his voice. He sounds delirious. ‘You’re making a big mistake, Mark,’ he spits out, and he struts away into the deep darkness of the labyrinth at last, ashamed and humiliated, never to be seen again.

A second later, Adam comes back and turns into the other direction, still as angry. ‘Dead end,’ he mumbles, and it’s the last time they ever see him again. 

The mood changes now that the threat is gone. The boys look at each other for the first time since breaking up. Gary doesn’t feel angry any more, and Mark no longer feels quite so alone. Their argument pales in comparison with the danger Mark was in. For a moment, they can pretend to be all right — broken, but all right.

‘You okay, Mark?’

Mark nods. He looks shaken. ‘Think so.’

‘Did – did he hurt you?’

Mark shakes his head. ‘I think you got here just in time if you know what I mean.’

It’s only then that Gary notices that Mark isn’t just a little shaken, he’s positively _trembling_ still. He must be absolutely terrified, and who can blame him? Adam could really have hurt him in the worst way possible.

The thought sends a shiver down Gary’s spine. He lets go of the last remnants of anger in his mind. He gestures in the direction of the path Adam left in. ‘Come,’ he says, ‘I’m taking you to a hotel.’

Mark crosses his arms over his chest, stubborn and cold. Gary wishes he hadn’t left his jacket on the bathroom floor so he could drape it round Mark’s shoulders and keep him warm. ‘I – I can take care of myself, Gary,’ Mark stammers. He’s not moved an inch. ‘I don’t need your help.’

(Are they really going to have this discussion _now_?) ‘Yeah, well, I’m not bloody well leaving you here either,’ Gary says, stubborn too. ‘Not with that bastard still around, anyway. The money I gave you will probably get you a room in the local four-star if you let me and James drop you off. He’s probably already waiting in the parking lot.’

Mark jerks at the mention of the money Gary paid him. He fumbles with his hands. ‘I – I got rid of the money, Gary.’

A beat. ‘You did what?’

‘I threw it away.’

There’s a tiny flutter in Gary’s stomach. Gary wishes he hadn’t felt it. ‘. . . why?’

Mark shrugs. Some colour creeps back into his cheeks; he’s embarrassed. ‘I guess I was just ashamed. I didn’t — I didn’t want my memory of you to be spoiled by something _I_ did.’ He looks Gary in the eye then, and they both feel something that feels a lot like hope. ‘I just didn’t want to remember you like that, Gary. I — I really didn’t want us to end up this way, you know.’

There’s that flutter again. It’s like the ire that Gary felt earlier has completely disappeared. All he can remember now is that brief flash of hope when he and Mark first made love; that brief realisation in the restroom that _it was never even Mark’s fault_. Could their wounds still be mended after all?

Gary’s not sure. He’s scared to hope. He doesn’t want to push, so he doesn’t. ‘Let’s go, Mark.’ He holds out his hand, beckons Mark to follow him. ‘Please.’

But Mark stays rooted on the spot. Gary can’t tell what’s shaken him more, Adam treating him so terribly or the potential offer of a cease-fire. It’s like Mark’s too afraid to have hope too. ‘How can you still even look me in the eye, Gary? I – I don’t understand.’

It’s a difficult question, and Gary doesn’t know how to answer it. All he knows right know is that he wants to get Mark to a safe place more than anything. ‘D’you mind if we discuss this in the car, mate? I’m freezing me bollocks off here, it’s so cold.’

Gary thinks he can see the beginnings of a smile on Mark’s face. They feel more flutters in their chests. ‘Okay.’

They leave the maze in silence. They don’t get lost; it’s like the stars themselves have lit up the path in front of them so that they may leave this dreaded place in peace. Mark doesn’t hold Gary’s hand, but he wants to. He’d hold Gary’s hand all night long if he could.

For with Gary, Mark feels safe, arguments or not. With Gary, Mark doesn’t have to worry about the demons that hide away in the dark corners of the labyrinth they’re in. Gary will protect him, because that’s what Gary Barlow does. He’s aching, yes – they both are, deeply and irreversibly – but he’s still a gentleman. The may have cheated and lied and cursed in the heat of the moment, but that’s not the _point_ , or maybe it is; for now that the boys’ guards are down and they finally know who Mark Owen is, for better or worse, they have no choice but to trust each other. They _have_ to. If they want to make it out of this party alive, trust is the only way.

At last, the mud makes way for a gravel path and they reach the exit of the maze. The mansion grounds look eerily quiet from up here, and Mark huddles a little closer to his friend and his saviour as they walk. They still don’t hold hands.

The boys don’t know how much time they spent in the maze, but the party seems to be over at last. The open ballroom windows no longer let through sounds from the party. The neon lights are unchanging and stationary: their days of painting the walls in a million colours are over. Guests are nowhere to be seen, and if they’re still here then they’re probably headed towards their cars and taxis by now. It’s like the universe decided enough was enough the moment Mark needed saving from Adam.

The idea is almost soothing, and Mark relaxes a little when he sees the parking lot in the distance. It looks empty and deserted. In the distance, he thinks he can see James waiting with his arms folded over his chest like a proper bodyguard. He reminds Mark of a parent waiting for his kids to come home late, except James probably won’t scold them for the things they got up to in the evening.

The image makes Mark smile. He glances at Gary. He touches his hand, briefly (Gary turns red), and looks away again. He feels ashamed still, but mostly he just feels grateful. Like Gary, a spark of hope has reignited into his heart, burning him up inside until it hurts and he wants to feel nothing else.

He hopes the hope is there to stay.

Eventually, Mark gains the courage to look at Gary again. He struggles to find the words he wants to say and settles for a quiet thank-you. ‘Thank you, Gary.’

‘Don’t worry about it, mate.’

They reach the car. James doesn’t bother making small talk about the party: he just opens the door for them no questions asked, and they slowly slide onto the backseat, claiming the exact same seats they were in before.

It feels strange and yet oddly familiar to be back in the car again. Mark tries hard not to think about the blowjob he gave Gary there earlier, or maybe it’s all he wants to think about. How can he _not_? Even now, it’s hard not to taste Gary’s skin on his tongue again; or once more feel Gary’s gentle fingers in his hair as he _sucked_. (And the way Gary kept quiet throughout even though Mark just _knew_ he wanted to cry out? Fucking hell.) It was a thoughtless moment of desire, and yet it could not have been more beautiful. Gary kissed Mark’s mouth after he came, and it was all Mark’s been able to think of since.

Other men don’t dare look Mark in the eye after he’s given his all so intimately, but Gary did back then. He still does. _That’s_ how Gary Barlow’s different, and that’s why Mark’s now feeling almost as comfortable as he did when they met. It’s like their argument is no more than a fleck of dirty paint on a window pane; no more than a bad memory they’ll one day forget about. Perhaps this is all just about to fade away after all.

James’s voice brings Mark back to the here and now. He’s lowered the partition screen with a flick of a switch. ‘Where to, Sir?’

Gary thinks about it. He’s not sure yet. ‘The Millennium hotel, please, James.’

It seems like the most logical option, dropping Mark off at a hotel. That way, Gary doesn’t have to go through the trouble of inviting Mark back into his own home again. They can text in the morning, if they want to. They could call and see how they feel about each other after the heat of their argument has faded. But he can’t invite Mark into his own bed yet. (He wants to, though. Desperately.)

Gary turns to Mark, who hasn’t spoken since they got into the car. Gary wishes he could read his mind. ‘You okay with that, Mark?’

Mark nods. He doesn’t want to point out that he probably won’t be able to afford the room and that he’s meant to be back in London in the morning if he wants to keep his job. He just says thank you, and off they go. The partition moves back up a second later. James still hasn’t asked them any awkward questions, and they’re both grateful for it.

For the longest time, the boys don’t know what to say to each other. They have so many random, incoherent thoughts running through their minds that it almost seems impossible to utter them all. Where do they even begin? Is their conflict over now that they’re together again? Was Gary ‘saving’ Mark and offering him a ride in his car a way of starting over or is everything yet to be solved? Will they text each other tomorrow morning at all or will they just go their separate ways and forget the other ever existed? Or worse, what if they’re about to fall head-first into another argument? This could still turn into the car ride from hell if they’re not careful.

It’s Gary who has to make the first step towards making up. He clears his throat and says, frankly, the first thing that comes to mind. ‘I’m sorry I called you a slut, Mark. I don’t know what came over me, I really don’t.’

Mark chuckles. It’s an original conversation starter, if anything. ‘I probably deserved that.’

‘You really didn’t, mate.’ Gary shakes his head. It’s hard to tell in the dark, but he almost looks ashamed of himself. He realises when things went wrong now; when he saw Mark come over and assumed he was a sex worker. This is both their faults, not just Mark’s. ‘I mean, Christ, Mark, I thought you were a _rent_ boy. I just _assumed_ you were. How desperate was I?’

‘I didn’t exactly reject your offer, though, did I?’ Mark quietly points out. It’s not an apology, but a fact. This is how Mark sees it; he should have said no from the start. No excuses. ‘I didn’t even try to tell you how wrong you were, I just named the first number that came to my mind. I — I should have been honest, Gary. I should’ve _said._ But instead the lies just spiralled out of control till I didn’t even know who I was anymore. What kind of person does that?’

Gary answers softly. He doesn’t feel his previous anger anymore. All he can do is acknowledge how silly they’ve both been. ‘You just did what you thought was right, Mark. That’s all. It was an honest mistake.’

But Mark doesn’t see it that way. He still blames himself. ‘But don’t you see, Gary? We were going to have sex anyway, you know, no matter if you’d offered me money or not. It’s just that _I_ had to ruin it all with — with whatever this is. These lies. And — and I didn’t even feel bad about it, you know. If Mr. Pearce hadn’t shown up I’d still be lying to you now.’

Gary doesn’t know what to say to that, so he lets Mark speak. He tries not to let his hope fade, but it’s clear that Mark needs more than just hope to believe they have a future.

Mark goes on. He’s finding it hard to explain himself, and he nearly stumbles over his own words. ‘I wish I could make it up to you, Gary, but I feel — I feel like I’ve already given you everything. I’ve already given you my body and – and my mouth and my story and — and I just don’t know how what else I can do to make it better. My body is all I _have_ , you know, but how — how can I still give you my body if I’ve already asked you to pay for it?’ He smiles, and his eyes are so sad that it almost breaks Gary’s heart. ‘I don’t know what to do, Gaz.’

‘That’s just it, Mark,’ Gary says, and it comes out as an epiphany. He sees it all clearly now. ‘I don’t just want your _body_.’

Mark looks up slowly. His sad blue eyes meet Gary’s, and they almost look hopeful. ‘I – I don’t understand,’ he stammers, afraid to hope still, but deep down he understands perfectly.

They have a _future_.

Gary offers Mark his hand, and this time Mark takes it, no questions asked. It still surprises him how bloody well they match, with Mark’s fingers perfectly fitted into his like they were made for each other.

It’s official: they were made for each other.

Gary doesn’t hold back on speaking his mind this time; he knows now is the last time he might ever be able to utter these words ever again. He _needs_ Mark to know; need to get out his own truth before he bottles it up again.

‘What I mean is that I want more than this, Mark. I don’t just want _sex_. I want _you_. I want to wake up in the morning with you in me arms and when I come home after a gig in the evening I just wanna cuddle, really. That’s it, mate. Nothing more, nothing less.’ He smiles. He squeezes Mark’s hand, and Mark squeezes right back, his blue eyes indecipherable. ‘And you’re great in bed, you are, mate, but I don’t want sex to be the only thing to define us, Mark, I really don’t. I just don’t.’

Mark’s eyes go wide, like he’s just had an epiphany too. His face transforms into a smile, broadening his dimples. He looks absolutely beautiful, and nothing like the lad Gary had to save from their mutual enemy half an hour ago. He looks like a man in love, hopelessly so.

‘But that’s what I want _too_ , Gaz,’ Mark says, and it comes out like he’s just found out the Earth revolves around the run and he’s the Earth and Gary’s the sun that’s keeping him alive. ‘I don’t just want sex _either_. I want more, too, but – but I didn’t know how to bring it up cos – cos you were paying me and – and I didn’t know –’

Mark takes a deep breath. The pleasant truth that Gary’s still in love with him too has rendered Mark a stammering mess. His cheeks are flushed a beautiful red, and it makes Gary want to kiss him. Mark tries again. He feels less nervous now. He thinks he knows what he’s saying.

‘The moment you first touched me I just knew I wanted more, Gaz, but I had no idea if I could go there, you know. I didn’t know if it was right, being who I was. Or pretending to. You were paying me, and a part of me enjoyed it cos I’ve never had that kind of money before, but deep down I kept imagining a world where you didn’t have to pay me and we could just – we could just be you and me. Like, boyfriends. And then – and then you asked me if I wanted to come along with you tonight, and I just felt so much _hope_ , you know. I thought, maybe he wants more than this too.’

‘I do, Mark,’ Gary reiterates, as if it’s not yet clear enough. ‘In fact, I think I want to be in a relationship with you.’ He smiles and squeezes Mark’s hand then, and he does it with so much _heart_ that it makes Mark giggle and look away, like an infatuated child. (Surely it must mean something that they still have this effect on each other _now_ , after everything they’ve been through? This is a good sign, this!)

Mark, while secretly pleased, does not speak for a while. Empty city streets and streetlights pass them by. The world is asleep, and Mark and Gary feel perfectly alive. This feeling in their bellies isn’t just _hope_ – it’s true. It’s now. The future – _their_ future, together – is happening now, regardless of what has come before or still has to. It’s like they’re meeting all over again and the money and the lies never even happened. All that’s left over, is the memory of the love they made, seared into their hearts forever more. It’s all they’ve ever needed.

Does this mean the hurt never happened? No, not exactly – not ever –, but Gary’s happy to overlook it if Mark is.

But Mark needs to be sure. He can hear and understand every single word Gary is saying, but he needs to hear them again: played over and over like a song he’s taken to heart. It’s like he still can’t believe that Gary could be so willing to forgive him.

‘You’re sure about this, though, aren’t you, Gary?’ he asks, a little uncertainly. ‘I mean, how do you even know you can trust me?’

It’s a fair question, and Gary doesn’t immediately answer it. He spends some time staring out of the window instead, and Mark lets him. As it so often does, the world passes by at a steady pace. James is driving slowly, deliberately so. It’s dark outside, but it’s so early in the morning that the sun might as well be coming up over the country roads already. In a way, it’s how the boys are feeling deep inside, too; like they used to be in the dark and their diverging paths are about to be lit up and joined together. They won’t be strangers no more, just lovers.

James has taken a detour to the hotel. Gary only notices after a few minutes, but he’s thankful James is giving them the time to talk this over. He knows James can’t possibly know what they’re discussing, but he _must_ have seen the way they were looking at each other. It isn’t just something you hide, this love is; it’s something Gary wants to shout from the rooftops, if Mark ever lets him.

Gary decides to address Mark’s question. He thinks he finally knows why he can trust him. ‘You didn’t know you could trust _me_ either,’ Gary tells Mark. ‘Back at the hotel, when we first met. I could easily have been some creep, especially with so much money involved. So why come to me room anyway? Why not stay away?’

Mark shrugs. It wasn’t really a question on Mark’s mind till Gary brought it up again. ‘I did wonder for a bit, you know – what if you turned out to be dangerous, but I knew that was just me being silly. And I’ve had my fair share of hook-ups anyway. Not many, but some. I know the sort of guy who’s only out there to get people in trouble, and you’re not it. You’re the sort of guy you fall in love with.’

Gary sits straighter. His heart skips a beat. ‘What gave it away?’

‘Dunno. I just knew. Like, intuition.’

It’s the word Gary’s been looking for. _Intuition._ Gary knows he can trust Mark because that’s what his heart is telling him.

‘Then it’s intuition for me too, Mark. I know I can trust you because I just _do_.’ He smiles, and Mark smiles back at him. It’s wonderful. ‘Look, I can’t pretend this won’t be difficult, all right, cos it will be. A lot of stuff has happened between us that I’ve never had to deal with before and – and Christ, Mark, I don’t even know where I’m gonna be in the morning. I could be dropped from me record label in the morning for all I know, and I’m not sure if starting a relationship with you is going to be the best or worst thing I’ve ever done. Maybe both.  But the least we could do is _try_ , you and me.’

Mark can’t believe his ears. Is this really happening? Is this the start of the relationship he’s always been looking for? ‘What are you saying, Gaz?’

‘What I’m saying is that I wanna start over, Mark. With you.’

Mark can almost feel his own hands melt into Gary’s then. They’re actually sat here, talking about starting over! ‘You’d do that for me?’

‘For you? Yeah. Yeah, I would, mate.’

Gary’s not playing. As if to prove his point, he presses a button in front of him with his free hand. A second later, the partition moves down and Mark can see James staring back at them in the rear-view mirror. His face shows no emotion, but Mark thinks he can see him try to hold back a smile in the streetlights.

‘Is everything all right, Sir?’

‘I was just wondering if you could drive back home straight away, James?’ Gary glances at Mark, who turns bright red. ‘Unless you were really keen on staying at the hotel, that is, Mark.’

Mark’s not sure, but then again he hadn’t really considered it. ‘I do have an early start in the morning, Gaz,’ he points out, only just remembering it now. Mr. Pearce _had_ seemed very keen on seeing him back at reception first thing in the morning. (He should probably have thought this through.)

‘Just call in sick,’ says Gary, who has not had a proper job since the age of fifteen.

‘But Mr. Pearce _saw_ me, Gary. I just can’t call in _sick_.’

‘Then tell your boss that you were busy convincing me to do that hotel residency of his,’ Gary suggests, probably a bit too keenly. (He really does want Mark to come home with him, you know.) ‘He’ll _love_ that. You might even get a promotion out of it. I was already thinking about doing it anyway so you might as well take all the credit, mate.’

Mark makes a face as though it’s a fair comment. And truth be told, he didn’t fancy going back to work in the morning anyway. He’d much rather stay with Gary, here, where he’s loved and adored. They could talk and cuddle and kiss and maybe sleep in the same bed if they wanted to. (Will they make love? Probably not, but that’s fine. They’ll take it slow this time.) And in the morning, they could hold each other tight, like lovers; like they were always supposed to. It won’t be a walk in the park, but nothing worthwhile ever is.

‘All right, Mr. Barlow,’ Mark says, and it makes his stomach go all funny. He rests his head on Gary’s shoulder, and they stay like that for the rest of the journey; as one, together; just two damaged starships who found their way back to the summer sky in the end.

‘ _Let’s go home_.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a part three in here somewhere. Maybe.

**Author's Note:**

> I might write a part two of this when I'm no longer drowning in work.


End file.
